Haunted Sona
by seabluemermaid
Summary: Got Chapter 19 up! There are some sentenced to life in Sona...some sentenced to eternity. Here's a spooky little tale that's hopefully not too dark to tide us over until the premiere! As always, I don't own Prison Break...
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

It took a couple of moments after he blinked the sleep from his eyes, but Michael Scofield knew at once where he was. There were no windows nearby—no windows anywhere in that corner of hell on earth, from what he'd seen. He didn't need windows; his own internal clock told him it was finally morning.

And that new day found him there…in Sona. That place that seemed to have been forgotten by man and forsaken by God.

Sitting up, he rubbed a crick in his lower back. Sleeping on a bare, stone floor. Now that was a new experience. Even Fox River, on its worst day, had seemed like the Hilton in comparison to that place.

Once on his feet Michael drew in a breath that he instantly regretted. God, the stench in that place. The walls, the floor, every inch of it reeked of human waste and despair.

_Makes sense. This is the kind of place that can kill every last grain of hope._

It took effort, but hel fought off that thought and the nausea that rose in him as he started down the dark corridor. Day or night, it was dark in Sona. He had to get some fresh air and hopefully something to eat. If there was anything there fit for human consumption.

He had to remember that this was a temporary situation. This wasn't going to last. He had to keep focused on that. He had to keep believing. He knew he could afford to lose everything but his faith that he'd be free eventually. If he lost that, he'd surely die there in that place.

Just as he came to the doorway he heard a male voice pierce the air with a heart-stopping scream. Other noises, too—brutal noises, so violent. Michael didn't know the cause and he didn't want to know. He had enough on his plate with getting himself out of there and reuniting with Sara and his brother.

Escaping that place and returning to life…or to put it plain and simple, saving himself. That was all he had to do. This would be easier than the last time. No one was coming with him now.

"You sleep well, Michael?"

For a moment he closed his eyes. Had he really thought he'd avoid crossing paths with Mahone forever? Maybe not, but he'd only seen him the night before, when they'd both stood there with the guards in the rain, acknowledging each other. Smelling each other's fear, the way wild animals that had wounded each other could do.

He gathered the strength to smirk as he faced Alex Mahone.

"Well enough," he replied. "No chocolates on my pillow, though. Guess I should complain to the front desk about that."

"Chocolates on your pillow. Cute." Mahone's chuckle was light, even sweet, almost big brotherly. Then, with lightning speed, his smile faded and his hands grabbed fistfuls of Michael's jacket, slamming him hard against the wall and pinning him there.

"You know, I should kill you, you little bastard," the former lawman muttered under his breath, his face inches from Michael's. "Here. Now. I should kill you for what you did to me."

"Oh. Well, you're good at that, Alex. Killing people," Michael spoke softly, mocking him. He didn't struggle or tense under Mahone's grip, so far past the point of caring.

Mahone ignored the remark, but he couldn't conceal the expression in his ice-blue eyes, the pain so vivid there. "What you did to me, there's no forgiveness for that."

"Yeah? Like there's forgiveness for what you did to me? Killing my father? How you would've sacrificed me and my brother if I hadn't stopped you?" It gave Michael some momentary satisfaction, seeing that burst of surprise on his enemy's face when he shoved him roughly, effectively loosening the man's hands from his jacket. "Look, Mahone, you did what you felt you had to do, and I did what I knew I had to do. Let's leave it at that, all right? Now either you kill me or you get the hell out of my way."

The fire of rage burned in the other man's eyes. Michael fully expected him to fulfill the first suggestion, right there in that courtyard in front of the other prisoners staring their way.

Then he noticed Mahone's hands shaking at his side before he sunk them into his jacket's pockets, out of his adversary's sight.

"Yeah, all right. I'll leave you alone." He sniffed, then flashed a mirthless grin. "For now."

"Cool. Take care, Alex."

Michael waved at him as if they were two buddies departing after a football game. He heard Alex call something out behind him, peppered with some colorful language, but he kept walking without looking back.

Breakfast—or what passed for it—was served in a huge room much like the one that had been in Fox River, only filled with squalor. Another key difference was that the food at Fox River was at least edible. Whatever that slop was that had been slapped onto a plate by the inmate on the other side of the counter looked as rancid as it smelled. Michael wasted no time tossing it, though he kept the coffee. It tasted slightly burnt, almost muddy, but it would hold him over. Right now he wasn't hungry enough to eat something that absolutely turned his stomach. Perhaps later he'd have no choice.

From across the courtyard another familiar face was beckoning him with a waving hand. Michael was conflicted. What should he do? Pretend not to notice and go his own way? Go where, exactly? There was nowhere to go in Sona.

And, however it killed him to admit it, he took pity on that one. The night before he'd had to force that image of Brad Bellick from his mind. Either that, or he would've never been able to sleep.

_Don't forget what he did to Sucre and Maricruz._

That was a problem. The memory of that dogged him as he waved back and slowly dragged his feet across the yard.

Still, did Bellick deserve such cruelty? Did anyone? Bellick looked smaller, somewhat. Beaten, certainly. Now, up close, Michael could see the man's soul had been ravaged as badly as his body. That other inmate from last night, he might have—_no_. Michael couldn't allow himself to dwell on that. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end with dread at the mere thought.

"Hey, Scofield," Bellick called out as he approached. He smiled, as if the sight of Michael had produced even the slightest shred of hope in his empty heart.

"Hey." Michael sat himself down against the wall beside him. "You, uh…you don't look so good. You okay?"

"I been better." Bellick's laugh was strangled by a sob, yet he was able to compose himself. "You…you look like you're holding up."

"That's a good way to put it. I'm holding up. Or trying to."

Bellick nodded. Michael noted the dried blood on his lower lip and the missing teeth.

Drawing nearer, Bellick confided, "Scofield, I don't wanna die here."

Michael couldn't suppress a frown in time. Consoling someone—other than Sara, it seemed—and emotions in general weren't his thing.

"It's only one day," he reminded Bellick.

"Is it? Feels like a century." Pausing, the man wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. "And something else…did you hear the voices last night?"

"Voices? What do you mean?"

"The voices of…the dead." Bellick obviously forced that smile. "Don't tell me you didn't hear them. Scofield, this place is haunted."

Michael knew to proceed carefully. The man had to be delirious. Just how badly had they pummeled him?

"I think in this place," he ventured, "we have enough to worry about with the living. The"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Bellick inched closer again. "I know what I saw, Scofield. I know what I heard. That was no human. And they're evil. All of 'em."

For emphasis, Bellick clutched Michael's shoulder, so hard that it caused the slim man pain. He shrugged a little to free himself.

"Come on, now. Get ahold of yourself," he advised quietly. "You can't do this right now. You have to keep your wits about you—"

"You don't believe me. You think I'm crazy." Tears welled in Bellick's bloodshot eyes. "I'm telling the truth, Scofield. But you'll have to see it for yourself. Then you'll know. You'll _know_."

Suddenly, his expression changed. His eyes widening, he struggled to his feet.

"If you find a way out of here," he told Michael, "and you will, I know you will, you're smart…you have to take me with you. Please, Michael. Please get me out of here. Oh—I gotta go."

It didn't take a great intellect to figure out what the man was hurrying to escape. Coming toward them was another inmate, not the same one from the night before, either. Big as a refrigerator, faced lined with deep scars and hatred, his sneer menacing.

Michael looked away from him, grateful to see that Bellick was limping away as fast as he could before the mountain of a man could reach him. He downed the rest of his coffee despite the fact that it was now lukewarm. He was hungry, but it was a hunger that could be contained for a while with that shot of caffeine.

Evil spirits. If he hadn't felt sorry enough for the man, Michael felt even more compassion for him now. He stood in the courtyard, watching the inmates who glared back at him, those who were ganging up and beating another familiar con to a pulp—where had he come from, anyway? Was there no getting rid of that one-handed freak?—everyone generally left to their own devices, to the very lowest common denominator.

Evil spirits, there in Sona. Michael had to admit that it wasn't really such a far-fetched possibility at all.

Theodore Bagwell thought the three men who'd beaten him earlier were through with him. Unfortunately for him, he was wrong.

"Hey, friend. Friend—_amigo_!" He used one of the few Spanish words he knew, succeeding in at least getting the one who'd dragged him to his feet to look directly at him. "_Hablas ingles, amigo? Por favor, hablas ingles_?"

"Yeah, _pendejo_, I speak English." One of the other three had spoken up, grabbing his other arm and yanking him down the dank, darkened corridor. Though his words were laced with a heavy accent, he spoke T-Bag's language well enough to be understood. "I can tell you to shut up unless you want to die."

They were going to beat him again. Or would they do even more this time? Bagwell was powerless, every inch of his muscles still bruised and aching from what they'd done to him earlier that day. The onslaught had been so malicious that, in spite of how hard he'd tried to avoid it, he'd been brought to the point of screaming. Every last one of his screams had been in vain, of course. No one, not a single soul, had come to his aid.

That included the Pretty.

Oh, yes. He was there, too. How he'd landed there was a mystery. T-Bag hadn't seen Lincoln Burrows, but he'd seen Michael clear as day, catching a glimmer of those gorgeous, unmistakable blue eyes of his from a distance. Scofield had turned away from him and walked away, making no effort to help him as he was beaten to a pulp by three sets of fists and kicked savagely by three sets of feet. One of his ribs felt like it was busted and he was having trouble standing on one badly mangled ankle, but what had hurt more was Scofield's reaction. He wouldn't be forgetting that blatant disrespect.

"Where are we going?" He realized right after asking the question that the answer didn't matter. It had only served to give them an indication of his state of mind, how filled with fear he was right at that moment.

The hallway looked more like a cave, like the belly of the whale. It was only dimly lit by single bulbs, strategically placed here and there on the stone walls. A scrawny brown rat scurried across the path in front of them as they continued deeper into the corridor, away from the rest of the prisoners.

They were going to kill him. Or were they? Surely, if they'd wanted to kill him, they could have done so before anywhere in Sona. He'd watched another man die in similar fashion, not more than an hour after arriving in that place.

It was better if they did kill him, actually. Better for _them._ Because in Bagwell's psyche, rising from the fear, was that uncontrollable wrath that often rose in him. Almost of its own volition, his one remaining hand, though sore from how he'd fallen on it that morning, balled into a fist. If they didn't kill him, they should pray the opportunity never arose for him to take vengeance on them. Oh, what he would do to them. Just thinking about it comforted him, even as, without warning, the men tossed him down to the floor like a small child. Without speaking, they made quick work of binding his wrists and feet with rope.

His worst fears were confirmed: They _were_ going to kill him, but it appeared they would be torturing him first. He felt compelled to appeal to them, though he was careful to keep his voice from shaking.

"Friend, listen to me. You don't want to do this."

The English-speaking one, with his long, greasy hair drawn back in a ponytail, addressed him. "What is it you think we're doing?"

"I don't know. But I know it would be explicitly advantageous for you not to make an enemy of me. I could be, how shall we say…efficacious to you and your friends."

"Efficacious," the man repeated. Then he laughed. "Look, _friend_, if you make me get a dictionary to understand you, I may put it someplace you won't like. _Me comprende, amigo_?"

Heaving a heavy sigh, T-Bag resigned himself. His nose twitched from nerves, something that couldn't be helped. Confused, he watched as they gave the ropes a final inspection, rose, and started walking away. Very quickly.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

One of the other three surprised him by also speaking English, glancing at him over his shoulder and explaining, "We want you to meet someone."

"Who?"

"Someone who has been in this place for a long time. If they let you live, we'll come back for you tomorrow. That is…if you haven't totally lost your mind by then." With a flash of yellowed teeth, the inmate disappeared down the corridor.

_Someone who has been in this place for a long time._ More than one of them, too. T-Bag rested his head against the wall behind him and kicked at the dirt in his frustration.

He closed his eyes. Was this the way it ended for him? It wasn't supposed to have been this way. He'd had Westmoreland's money in his possession. With it, he was supposed to have bought a reprieve from the past. A future. The chance to live. A fresh start, maybe somewhere exotic and tropical. And he hadn't been selfish, either. He'd meant to share that life with a woman, the one woman he'd loved passionately, and with the children he would have treated as his own. It would have been beautiful. It would have been perfect.

And then she had to go and spoil it all by being such a stupid bitch.

_This is the way it ends._

Someone would be coming. Another trio of men, perhaps, or more. They were certainly taking their sweet time about it, too. Whatever they were going to do, why couldn't they just do it already and get it over with? If they were going to torture or maim him, any more than he'd already been maimed, why the delay? Was it supposed to be some kind of useless dramatic effect?

Maybe he could sleep. Steal some dreamless moments of peace before fate caught up with him. T-Bag tried to prop himself against the wall, tried to forget the rats and the cockroaches he'd seen scurrying across the floor, hoping to hide himself in sleep.

Yet his mind was too alert and fought him. What had those men mumbled amongst themselves? He'd caught a word or two. _Vamos, apurense!_

_Vamos._ That was "let's go," wasn't it? He didn't know what _apurense_ meant. And there was one other word, one he'd never heard before even back in Fox River, where there'd been other gents who'd spoken that Spanish lingo. What was the word again?

Oh, yes. _Fantasma._ Whatever could that mean? Someone stupid, not as skilled with words as he, would have erroneously translated that to mean, "fantastic," but Bagwell knew that was a ridiculous guess. "Fantastic" in Spanish was _fantastico _or _fantastica_ or something along those lines.

So what was _fantasma_?

"Teddy."

He may have been in pain, frightened and bound, but his reflexes were still as rapid-fire as ever. T-Bag snapped awake and stared into the near darkness.

"Who's there?" he croaked.

No answer. Funny how the sounds of the prisoners' voices, all noises were silenced, here in this lonely corner of the prison. The patter of a rodent's paws a few feet away startled him.

Teddy. He'd heard his name. Or had he at last drifted off to sleep as he'd hoped? That had to be it.

_"Ted-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."_

He swallowed hard. His tongue darted out to moisten his chapped lips, but he refused to answer that time.

Had the voice been male or female? Strangely enough, he couldn't decipher the gender. That wasn't so odd in itself. After all, he'd seen some boys dressed as girls and the like since he'd been in that place.

But this was different. This voice sounded…how to describe it?

_"Teddy, how could you do that to me? Those terrible things you did, Teddy…"_

That time, his blood chilled. He scrambled further away, losing his balance with his feet tied.

Unearthly. That was the word to describe the voice. More patter was heard, and not that of a small animal, either. A light flickered several feet down the corridor.

"Leave me alone!" T-Bag cried out hoarsely.

A single figure appeared. Just the outline, there in the hallway. Stocky build, head down.

"I'm comin', Teddy. Did you miss me, boy?"

_That's….my…father._

How was that possible? What was happening? His heart thundered in his ears.

"You sonsabitches wanna beat me, fine!" he shouted. "You wanna kill me, fine! But please, please, don't do this. Y'hear? Don't—"

_Someone who has been in this place for a long time._

The figure came closer. A long, black shawl was draped over its shoulders. It lifted its head.

T-Bag shook his head wildly. "Oh, no. Oh, no, oh my God, no…"


	2. Chapter 2

HAUNTED SONA

**CHAPTER TWO**

They'd seen his hands shaking…and they'd interpreted it to mean what would have come naturally for them to believe. That he was weak; that he was scared.

Not good.

Alex Mahone leaned against the wall, realizing he still had his once-trusty, hollowed-out pen on him. Only now it was empty and of no use to him. With the last of his pills gone, he wouldn't be numb to pain anymore. There'd be no calming him down, no convenient shutting down of his emotions. No protection from the hand life had dealt him. Now he had nothing except his misery to keep him company.

Pushing away from the wall, he began to walk. There was nowhere to go, really, but he was so restless and jittery that he had to do something with himself. At least if he was moving, he could work off some of the nervous tension pent up inside him, ready to blow at any moment.

_Forget I ever existed_.

Was it the withdrawal from the drugs or the pain brought on by the memory of that last conversation with Pam making his heart beat at a frighteningly fast rate? Alex couldn't tell.

How the hell had this downward spiral happened to him? It wasn't supposed to have been this way. He recalled now his father, that very last time he'd beat Alex so hard that he'd drawn blood. He could remember being a thin, small boy, before he'd shot up in height and built himself up physically, thinking, _Next time he's gonna kill me_.

And he remembered how he'd determined, some years later, that he would someday have the kind of life he'd always wanted to have. With all his heard, he'd wanted that. He'd set about to having it. Beginning with his training in the special forces and, subsequently, college. Both experiences that had prepared him for that better life he'd dreamed of, which had flourished with his prestigious job and a loving little family. He'd done it—he'd achieved his dream. He'd had a life.

Now it was gone. How had that happened? How had everything gone so totally wrong? If he lived to be a thousand, he could never figure it out.

"El Cura wants to talk to you, _americano_."

Alex was being addressed, and he knew it, yet he kept walking as if he hadn't heard a word. The man who'd spoken to him apparently wasn't all that keen on being ignored, however. Roughly he grabbed _el americano_, as he'd called him, by the arm and yanked him back a step.

"Ey, you deaf or something, _pendejo_?" Bald and built, he reminded Alex of a homely and scary version of Fernando Sucre.

Mahone pulled his arm out of the inmate's grasp. Glaring at him, he demanded, "What do you want?"

"It's not what _I_ want. El Cura wants to talk to you. El Cura—the Priest. That's what we call him."

"Oh. Well, I don't need The Priest. But I'll take The Lawyer, if he's got some free time for me."

Though Alex expected him to retaliate, Sucre's evil cousin actually chuckled. "This will be more helpful to you than a lawyer, I'm sure. El Cura doesn't speak to everyone. You should be honored. Come with me."

Alex only hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, with a nod, he followed the younger man and his three companions. That was when he noticed that the inmate who'd spoken was limping, even though he moved well, like one accustomed to his disability.

_El Cura doesn't speak to everyone_. Maybe this was another Sona hotshot, like that Lechero character. Someone who could provide protection while he was within those walls. Or was that nothing more than wishful thinking on his part? With a heavy dose of dread, he wondered what that protection could wind up costing him. Could it be any worse than any price he'd already paid?

On the way there they passed another inmate lying on the floor in a fetal position. Alex tried not to stare at the man, as much for his own sake as for the man's, to spare him that indignity. It had been rough enough seeing Bellick in the pathetic position he was in. Mahone didn't even want to imagine what had happened to him. His stomach churned at the thought of anything even remotely similar happening to himself. There in Sona, anything was possible.

But then he glanced back over his shoulder at the figure on the ground. A thin man, not very big in stature, with a shock of blond hair. The man seemed to sense Alex's stare and lifted his head ever so slowly. When he did, he revealed a face filled with cuts and bruises, like the nasty, large black-and-blues on his arms. He appeared to have been through quite a struggle but had lost the fight.

Theodore Bagwell. There could only be one of them—or so Alex hoped to God there couldn't be two of those running around. What was that animal doing here? That was probably the most dangerous of the escapees from Fox River, and yet there he sat in a crumbled heap on the floor, about as threatening as an injured bird that had fallen to the ground. He seemed to recognize Alex; those sharp eyes of Bagwell's—and he may have been crazy, but he sure as hell was an intelligent maniac—glinted with recognition at him. Distinctly, he opened his lips and was mouthing some words to him, trying to soundlessly communicate with Alex.

"You are making El Cura wait, _americano_!"

Hastily whirling around, Alex muttered, "Okay, okay. Sorry."

What had T-Bag tried to say? It looked like two words, or so it had appeared to Alex. The first word began with an "e" and there was an "f" or a "v" in there, judging by way his teeth had come down on his lips. Two syllables. The second word had two syllables as well, but it had begun with…what? An S? It sorta looked like he was saying "Even Steven." Was that it?

A taunt. That was it; he was taunting Alex. Mahone could almost imagine that white trash prince coolly singing out with that Southern twang of his: _Well, well, well! Lookee what we have here. Even Steven, Mr. FBI Man! You tried to hunt us down, but now here you are, my fine, respectable gentleman of the law, here in this hellhole with us common criminals. I do say, that is quite an unfortunate turn of events, sir._

But as Mahone was led through an open door, he forgot about T-Bag. For the time being, at least. He turned his attention instead to the frail-looking elderly gentleman dressed completely in white—white pants, an oversized white shirt, white sandals—seated on the floor. From his lips dangled a lit cigar as he pounded away on some dough, which he was energetically kneading and forming into tortillas. He could have been eighty, ninety, perhaps a hundred years old, with all those lines on his face and the delicate skin of his hands stretched over bones and not much flesh at all. Most of his hair, except for some fine strands of white, was gone.

Behind him was what appeared to be a shrine. Small glasses of water and some darker fluid, perhaps coffee or dark rum, were placed before strange, somewhat ominous hand-crafted dolls. It didn't take long for Alex to figure out that this was no Lechero, that this man did in fact have influence, but not of the variety that could provide any sort of protection for Alex while within the walls of that prison.

"Sit down," the man who had summoned him ordered.

Suppressing a sigh, Alex chose to do as he was told and not make waves. Still, talk about a waste of time. "The Priest." Now it made sense. El Cura, as in the priest of whatever voodoo-hoodoo nonsense the old man practiced. But to dismiss the man without hearing him out? Alex suspected that could be potentially hazardous to his health. Besides, it wasn't like he had back-to-back meetings to fill up his time now. He could humor the old man and spare him a few minutes. Not to mention avoid ticking anybody off at him.

A young man wearing glasses crouched down beside the ancient man, who puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for some seconds before removing it from his mouth. In a scratchy stage whisper of a voice, he uttered some words in Spanish. The younger man evidently was the translator.

"El Cura says he called you here today," came the translation, "because he has a message for you."

"Oh. A message." Alex nodded soberly. Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face.

More Spanish. "He says you have spirits that are around you." More Spanish; some waving of those old arms. "Spirits that are always with you."

"Uh-huh."

"Spirits of those that you have done harm to when they walked with you in this life. They came in here with you."

Another nod of his head. El Cura wasn't all that impressive. Not in Alex's opinion, anyway. That description could have gone for…oh…everybody in that prison.

Some more words from the self-proclaimed seer. The translator explained, "One was a young man. El Cura says he sees him sitting with you at a table. You're bringing him something…something to drink. He was in some kind of trouble, this boy…and there was a girl. A girl that was important to him. He wanted to be with her. But you didn't let him."

Mahone said nothing, only swallowed hard. That sort of sounded like somebody Alex had known not too long ago. But they were really just moree lucky guesses, more generalizations. He'd never believed in such things and he wasn't about to start believing now. How could anybody take those things seriously?

"The spirit says you killed him. You _murdered_ him." The translator paused, allowing El Cura to speak. "He says he sees one of the spirits pointing to something, um—uh, either a fountain or something else, something outside, in a yard. Birds go to drink from that fountain. There is something under the fountain that doesn't belong there."

Feeling his hands begin to shake, Alex shoved them into his pockets. He licked his lips and said nothing, concentrating instead on keeping the emotion from showing on his face. Inside, however…inside, he felt fear rising in him.

_This is all a joke_, he told himself. _None of this is true. Just coincidence. I don't believe in any of this, I don't believe, I don't believe, I don't believe._

El Cura stopped to ground out his cigar on the floor. He was quiet for some moments, his yellowed and dim old eyes staring vacantly at Mahone. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger, louder, startling Alex.

"He says there is another spirit that follows you," the translator said. "Whether that spirit means you good or harm, that's not clear right now. Your friend—the one they call Michael—something is here with him, too. Something is always with him."

At that, Alex spoke. "Michael, yes. I know him. But he's not my friend."

He was surprised to see that his words had merited a translation to El Cura. The old man looked from his interpreter to his visitor. Though he didn't smile, the elderly man had a gentleness about him. Looking directly at Alex, he spoke once more.

"The spirit that follows Michael," the translator said, "is a good spirit. And pure. It's an angel. That spirit is protecting him."

"Oh? Yeah? That's nifty." Alex was at a loss for words. Though it was petty and small of him, he thought, _Figures. I still can't get rid of Shales. Damn guy's tormenting me from the freakin' afterlife. And Pretty Boy Scofield? He's got a bodyguard from the Great Beyond. What else is new?_

He cleared his throat. "Tell El Cura I said thank you, but I don't really believe in ghosts."

The translator obliged. Emphatically, the old man spoke again, this time at length. Yet as the translator opened his mouth to speak, El Cura stopped him with a hand on his arm. The old man turned and addressed Alex. His English was broken but he spoke with a staunch determination to be heard.

"Men have died here," the seer told Mahone. "Always, they die violently. They lived violently. Water no under this place. Blood is under this place. And all those who die here are still here. All are evil. If you no believe now…you will."


	3. Chapter 3

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER THREE**

"Where's that coming from, that music?"

Michael would have known that voice anywhere. It confused him to hear it now, particularly because lately it had seemed that he would never hear it again. But he asked no questions and sought no explanations. He just turned over onto his side and smiled when he saw her there at his side.

Sara. _His_ Sara.

"I don't know," he replied, listening to the elegant strains of a piano concerto. "Classical."

"Mmmm. Maybe it's angels—playing just for us," Sara teased.

"Sounds about right to me."

He laughed with her. Briefly, he glanced around.

What was going on here? Only seconds earlier, moments, he'd been in that Panamanian prison. It was dark, dank, and so hot that the sweat dripped off him. In spite of the heat he'd tried to fall asleep. That was his way of escaping that place, even if it was just for an hour or two.

Now, somehow, he found himself sprawled out leisurely on a white sand beach. A strip of land marked by the sparse palms that swayed with the gentle tropical breezes. The white-foamed tide came in and out, ebbing rhythmically, seemingly in time with the wind. The water, like the sky, was clear. He breathed, his lungs filling with the scent of the ocean and the flowery fragrance of Sara's shampoo.

And, oh, yes—they were naked. Michael wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing and neither was Sara. He couldn't explain what was happening, but he knew he wanted that hour to last, to stretch to the very end of his life.

"You're safe here, Michael," Sara murmured, absently curling locks of her long hair around her finger. He mused to himself that she looked like a sweet teenager. "No one could find us if they tried."

He was almost afraid to ask the question gnawing at him. "Are we free, though?"

"No, Michael. Baby, you're not free yet. Soon. Very soon. I promise."

She didn't need to promise. Her word, as far as he was concerned, was gold. Yet it gave him a sense of peace, hearing her say those words to him. She leaned in closer and he responded, taking his time kissing her.

"Make love to me again," she urged him. "I want us to enjoy each other one more time. I want you so much, Michael."

"I want you, too, Sara."

Again? When had he made love to her the first time? There was no way something like that—being intimate with the woman who'd changed him forever—could have ever slipped his mind. But since nothing was making sense anyway, he assumed he was going through some sort of psychological episode. Maybe his time in Sona had lasted longer than anyone would have foreseen; maybe there'd been traumatic experiences and his mind had blacked them out, but the same mechanism that had done that had also blocked out memories he preferred to hold and cherish.

Whichever the case, Michael didn't dwell on it. He took her in his arms and pressed her against him, the heat of her body both arousing him and healing him.

Little kisses were shared between them. Soft, little kisses that led to deeper, more intimate and passionate ones. The kind that made conversation unnecessary. He stopped solely to gaze at her, to study her face, her smile that always seemed to belong to him.

Then Sara ended a kiss and propped herself up on her elbow and said, "Michael—Michael. You have to get up. Don't you hear that?"

"Don't I hear what?"

There was a problem? Sure, the music was louder. More staccato. It became worse from one moment to the next, as if the pianist were banging violently on the piano's keys.

"Michael, don't you hear that? Get up!" Sara said, her voice deepening unnaturally until she sounded like a man. "Come on, Scofield! _Get up_!"

Scofield? Since when did Sara—

Michael rolled over onto his back. He opened his eyes and had to catch his breath from the unexpected onslaught of disappointment when he saw that the beach was gone…the tropical breeze was cruelly replaced by a suffocating swelter…the ocean was nowhere in sight.

Worse still, Sara had disappeared. Funny, how he could literally feel a painful tear in his heart. He was back in Sona, that lonely place the rest of the world had either forgotten or thrown away. Hovering over him, instead of his Sara, were Bellick and Mahone. The former Fox River prison guard stood behind the former rogue lawman, frowning curiously at Michael over Mahone's shoulder. Alex had stripped off his jacket, presumably due to the unbearable heat, and his sweat-moistened shirt clung against the expanse of his chest.

"What do you two want?" Michael demanded gruffly, swinging his feet onto the floor.

They were interrupted by the strangest sound. A blood-chilling wail, a cry. Male or female—it was hard to tell which. The cry was followed by another sound, something best described as the low, monstrous growl of a predatory animal.

"What the hell's that?" Michael asked.

"That's what I'd like to know," Alex muttered.

Bellick turned pale. "They're ghosts. You hear them, too?"

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Michael rose to his feet. "Kinda hard not to hear them, don't you think?"

"Some people—some people don't hear them. But you do and we do. So that's good."

"I guess." Mahone looked from Bellick to Michael and rolled his eyes, as if to say, _Can you believe this guy's serious?_

"Well, uh…probably just the other men," Michael suggested. "Maybe they're trying to scare us."

"Nuh-uh, Scofield. T-Bag saw them."

"Saw who?"

"The spirits. What do you think did that to his face?" Bellick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The corner of his bottom list was crusted with dried blood. "He hasn't been the same since, either."

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_!"

That got a jump out of Michael. He was quick to note that the only one more embarrassed than he was was Mahone. That one had jumped with just as much raw fear. Recovering, Alex stood up straight and threw back his shoulders. He donned his trademark I'm-a-fearless-macho-nothing-fazes-me stance.

"That was nothin'," he snapped coolly at Michael.

Bellick, on the contrary, wouldn't be so easily convinced. "That was somethin', all right. Somethin' dead…that won't _stay_ dead."

Though those words hinted at humor, Michael could clearly see that Bellick was anything but amused. Problem was, Michael was already up. Between that dream that had seemed so real, bringing Sara to him if only in the realm of sleep, and whatever those unearthly noises were, Michael knew he wouldn't be drifting right back off to sleep anytime soon. Slipping out of his jacket, he tossed it aside and led the way to the door.

"Let's take a walk. Shall we?" He offered Bellick a halfhearted grin. "Sorry, Bellick. I don't believe in ghosts. There's gotta be a rationale explanation for what happened. My guess is it's probably something we'd rather not know about anyway."

He noticed Brad Bellick walked beside him, but a morose Mahone trailed behind, stubbornly refusing to look at him for the most part. His hand was shaking at his side and he appeared pretty wired, despite how late it was.

"You okay, Alex?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. I'm fine," the man answered abruptly.

"Sure? You don't look too good."

"I said I'm fine. What do you want? A note from my mom?" Alex snarled. "I don't believe in ghosts, either. But apparently I have one tagging along with me wherever I go here."

"Ah. That's nice." Michael turned around, hiding a bemused smile. "A pet ghost. Did he get off his leash? It's that what's making all that noise?"

"No, smartass. I'm not the one who says I have a ghost. El Cura says that."

"Who's El Cura?"

"Sona's resident psychic. He didn't ask to speak to you?"

"No, not yet. I haven't had the pleasure."

"Oh. Tsk, tsk. I guess you don't rate."

"I guess not."

Alex tossed his head with annoyance. "He says I have a ghost. Good or bad, who knows? Jury's still out on that. And he says you have an angel watching over you."

Michael glanced back at him. "An angel?"

"An angel that's not doing much of a good job," Bellick noted aloud. Suddenly he stopped, pressing a hand to Michael's shoulder. "That way. The noises were coming from down there. Listen—you can still hear something."

They had walked down a flight of stairs and down a corridor that, up until then, Michael hadn't been to before. Maybe it was because he'd been roughly awakened from a dream that had saved him, if only for such a short time, from that place, where he'd been in a romantic setting with Sara, but he was now keenly aware of his hatred for Sona. As bad as things had gotten in Fox River, he couldn't recall ever having loathed it quite as acutely as this place.

Yet that section of it, so dark and desolate, stirred his fear more than his hatred. There was enough light that they could see a steel door at the end of the corridor. As Bellick had said, there were noises coming from it. Voices, though Michael couldn't quite make out what was being said.

"I don't know about this," Michael said. "Going down there. What if it's a trap? Somebody's trying to lure us?"

All three turned at a mechanical sound, one that was very familiar.

It was the sound of an elevator moving. And then the door at the end of the hallway opened loudly—sliding open…just like an elevator. Out poured beams of light, so bright they almost seemed to be an aura around the door.

"It's like they want us to go," Alex whispered, his voice shaky. "They're calling us…"


	4. Chapter 4

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 4**

It felt like an hour had passed before anyone spoke again. There the three of them stood, barely breathing or moving, peering down that dingy, damp hallway at an eerie sight. Alex Mahone looked from Michael to Bellick, waiting for one of those guys to open his mouth. When neither did, he slapped a hand at his side.

"Well?" he prompted impatiently. "What're we doing?"

Bellick turned to him, eyeing him as if he'd lost his mind. "What? You're not thinking of going any closer, are you?"

"Why are you whispering? You afraid the spooks will hear us?" Mahone sneered at Michael. "What about you? You afraid of Sona's ghouls, too?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," Michael countered matter-of-factly.

"Believe in them or not," Bellick said, pointing at the brilliant light coming from the doorway. "You can't tell me that's natural."

"I can't say it's not, either," Michael told him. "Like I can't say for certain that this isn't some kind of trap."

After a brief lull in their conversation, Mahone asked, "Why would it be a trap? Think about it. If any of those goons wanted to do something to us, they're perfectly able to do it upstairs, without all this—this hocus pocus crap."

Bellick lowered his head. "Yeah. They can do anything they want to us without—without all this."

Alex regarded the former prison guard. He didn't want to ask exactly what had happened to the man. He had an imagination; he had a pretty good idea.

Patting Bellick's shoulder, he said, "I say we check this out. Unless you guys are scared."

"I am. I'm scared," Bellick admitted. "I do believe in ghosts. I've been through enough here. I don't need creepy lights coming from doorways, too."

Michael drew a deep breath. "I'm game. I'm also curious."

"Yeah. Me, too." Alex raised his chin and smiled, but it was no gesture of friendship.

That was a challenge.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Bellick reminded them.

"True. Then again," Michael paused, adding, "cats have nine lives. Be a shame not to sacrifice one of them in the name of exploration."

"Oh, yeah. That's us," Mahone tossed back sarcastically. "The big explorers. We're just a pair of Lewis and Clarks, you and me, Mikey."

"You're—uh, no, please," Bellick implored. "Mahone, Scofield, come on. Please don't go down there. Something's gonna happen to you two if you do."

"Something's already happened to us," Michael said. "It's all right. You go on back. We'll be okay."

_Something's already happened to us. _You_ happened to me,_ Mahone thought. _And, damn, do I _ever_ rue that day!_

"Look, Scofield, I don't know how to say this. But if anything happens to you and Mahone, that leaves me and T-Bag." Bellick stopped to steady his voice. "That means I got nobody in here. All I got is you two."

Mahone sighed and looked away, pursing his lips. All this togetherness was making him queasy. Though, deep down, he understood what Brad Bellick was saying. _Exactly_ what he was saying.

Michael seemed to be handling it much better than he was. "That's okay. Nothing's going to happen to us. You want to come with us, you're more than welcome. But if you can't, then you go on back. We shouldn't take too long."

Mahone scratched behind his ear and took a step back, offering Bellick a nod. The man didn't look pleased, but he appeared to accept the situation.

"Just be careful," Bellick told them. Then he turned and, with one last glance over his shoulder, disappeared back down the hall and around the corner.

"The light's dying down."

Snapping back around, Alex saw what Michael was talking about. The light flooding from the doorway was still there but fading in intensity.

"Wonder what that means?" Alex asked.

"I don't know. This is my first encounter with a haunted prison."

Mahone tried to swallow quietly so Michael couldn't hear him gulp as they neared the doorway. Truth be told, he _did_ believe in ghosts. Silly as it may be, he, Alexander Mahone, a grown man, military veteran and big, bad federal agent, believed in things that go bump in the night.

He'd be damned before he admitted that to Michael Scofield, however. He could barely 'fess up to it to himself. But he knew there were such things as ghosts.

Because this wasn't the first time he'd encountered one.

"Wow. A door with a light coming out of it," he said pleasantly, standing with Michael right outside it. "Spooooo-ky. Well—let's go."

"It's not just a door. It's an elevator. Let's go in. Not afraid to…are you, Alex?"

Slightly, he wavered under Scofield's unblinking gaze. If he needed his pills before, he needed them now even more. Every inch of his body screamed for one lousy little hit.

"No, I'm not afraid. See?" Brushing past the younger man, with long strides of his legs, he entered the elevator. He even jumped once, for good measure. "Step in, ladies and gentleman. Ladies' lingerie, fourth floor!"

Ignoring him, Michael frowned and followed him in. Both of the looked around at the walls surrounding them. As far as elevators went, that one was a claustrophobic's nightmare. The car was large, the walls covered by dirty canvas, and old, like one of those elevators found in buildings that dated back several decades and were close to being condemned. A freight elevator, specifically.

"I don't know about this," Michael remarked. "Does this make sense to you, Alex?"

"What?"

"An elevator. I mean, how weird is that? A freight elevator. Why would you need a freight elevator in this place?"

"Beats me. To transport the body bags, maybe?" Mahone wasn't being sardonic now. That was an honest guess, albeit a morbid one. "Wonder what they needed Otis for?"

Michael chuckled. He seemed surprised to see Mahone grinning back at him.

"You really pissed me off that day," Alex said, recalling the whole Otis-slash-LJ fiasco during which Scofield and Burrows almost ended up pulling a fast one on him.

"Ah, yes, but you have to admit: You _were_ impressed."

"Yeah. Whatever." Alex shrugged. Then, looking up, he gasped. "No, no—"

With a resounding slam, the elevator's doors slid shut behind Michael. His calm expression evaporated, along with the color in his face.

"Open, open, open!" he mumbled, pushing the buttons on the control panel, and they both tried to pry the doors open with their fingers to no avail.

Above them the light flickered twice and began to die out.

"What's happening?" Alex asked.

The car jerked vehemently, nearly knocking the men off their feet. And then the elevator, carrying its hostages, began its slow descent deeper down into the earth beneath Sona.

Brad Bellick avoided making eye contact as he walked into the populated area of the prison. He couldn't sleep; there was something about being awakened by the undead that worked better than caffeine, in that respect. Yet he would pretend to be asleep if he had to, if it meant saving himself from being assaulted again.

When he passed Lechero's lair he picked up his gait as best he could, though the limp didn't make it easy. He didn't want to chance accidentally falling into Lechero's line of fire, if he could help it.

By contrast, they'd been nice to him. They, as in Scofield and Mahone. Scofield had spoken gently to him and Mahone had gone so far as to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. That was nice.

Oh, he wasn't fooling himself. Brad knew those guys had no intentions of getting chummy-chummy with him. Guys like Mahone didn't toss back a few beers while watching a hockey game with guys like him. Mahone's type of man considered guys like Brad to be underlings. Never, ever their intellectual or social equals.

_Will you be my dog, Brad?_

He winced at the recollection of those words. Honestly, he'd given Scofield enough reason to mistrust and hate him—and that was an understatement. But even if he hadn't, Brad wasn't kidding himself. He knew he had nothing at all in common with Michael Scofield. Scofield was the sort of man who worked hard and lived well. He was also good-looking and bright and, something that was rare these days, he put others—those he loved—before himself.

Scofield could win the heart of someone like Sara Tancredi. Sara was a good, decent woman. Not like the trailer-trash princesses Brad had occasionally gotten to notice him. When they were drunk enough. Anyway, Michael Scofield was the type of man a woman like that looked more than twice at. A decent man with something to offer.

In other words, he was the kind of man Brad only wished he could be.

Finding his usual corner, he crouched down and tried to make himself comfortable. If he could have, he would have made himself invisible. He said a silent prayer that they'd leave him alone tonight…the living, not the dead, of Sona.

Sara. Now why'd he have to go and bring her up? He'd liked Sara, thought she was cute. Hell, he'd known her before she'd started working at Fox River. He was the one who'd given her the recommendation.

Brad rolled over onto his side, feeling achy and out of sorts. He was also anxious for Scofield and Mahone, hoping they were all right. Outside of his mother, he couldn't remember the last time he'd cared about someone else's well-being besides his own. More than a twinge of shame burned in him.

But…back to Sara. Naturally, she didn't see him as a desirable man. She probably wouldn't have wanted him, even if they were the last two people on earth. Could he really blame her? Pretty, smart, and a doctor to boot. The odds were better for him to win the lottery than to win her love. No, Sara would never look at him the way looked at Scofield.

But how he wished _some_ woman would. That wasn't the first time he'd felt so alone. It was just that here in Sona, loneliness was so acute, so strong, much crueler than anywhere else he'd been before. He was reduced to begging for friendship from a man he'd wronged miserably and a man who'd used him.

_"Por favor, dime, donde esta mi hijo? Dime, por favor…"_

Brad opened his eyes. A female voice, too plaintive and soft to be frightening. Still, it managed to send chills through him. Even if women were permitted in there at that hour, he knew—strangely enough, he knew—that it was no earthly woman speaking.

_"Busco mi hijo. Por favor, ayudame, caballeros!"_

Hugging himself to stop the shivers, he stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was just his imagination. That could be it, right?

He wanted fiercely to believe that. But then he though back to Mahone and Scofield staying behind to investigate that mysterious elevator, and he realized that in Sona, anything was possible.

Footsteps now. No more Spanish uttered in desperate tones. Just a woman's footsteps falling lightly against the stone floor. Could he be mistaken? Maybe it was a real-life, flesh-and-blood woman out there? One of Lechero's whores?

Against his better judgment, Brad rose to his feet. If Scofield and Mahone could approach that elevator, he could check out something simple like footsteps several feet away in the hallway. Couldn't he? Hopefully he wasn't that much of a big coward.

Except he stepped out into the corridor in time to see T-Bag, there slumped on the floor. Head down, arms wrapped around his knobby knees, his bare feet filthy and bloodied.

And there, at the end of the hall, an older woman, her salt-and-pepper hair drawn up in a bun and a tattered shawl draped around her shoulders, walked briskly until she disappeared into the wall at the end of the hall.

_"Mi hijo, mi hijo!_ My son, my son!"

Brad twirled around so rapidly, he almost lost his balance. That was the woman's voice, all right.

But it was coming out of T-Bag's mouth.

"I'm looking for my son, please! _Busco mi hijo, busco mi hijo!"_

"Oh, no," Brad rasped under his breath. "Oh, no, oh, my God…"

He backed up against the wall. It was as if he had temporarily forgotten how to breathe.

T-Bag was looking straight at him as his lips curled into the most fiendish sneer Brad had ever seen. His eyes were dark and empty, souless, like the eyes of a shark.

And then, right before Brad's eyes, T-Bag climbed the wall and dangled upside-down from the ceiling…


	5. Chapter 5

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

As soon as the elevator came to an abrupt stop, Michael's gaze darted to the control panel. The lights for two floors blinked on and off, with a mechanical humming sound coming from behind the panel. Immediately after he reached his hand out to touch the buttons, all the panel's lights faded into darkness.

The message came in loud and clear: _You, the living, are not in control here._

Michael glanced at Mahone, whose back was up against the car's rear wall. He was able to steady his breathing, though out of sheer surprise Alex sucked in a gulp of air when the doors roughly slid open again.

"At least we're not trapped in here," Michael whispered.

"Yep. Thanks for finding the silver lining in that cloud, chief."

Mahone wasn't being his acid-tongued, grouchy self. The spurt of a laugh that punctuated his words sounded suspiciously nervous. He was making conversation, maybe just breaking the thick silence. Alex reminded Michael of himself as a little kid on Halloween night or after seeing a scary movie, how he'd say something inane like, "Guess I'll go to bed now." The sound of his own voice would ease his fears.

Right now, he couldn't see anything calming either of them. He swore he could hear Alex's heart pumping like a jet engine and he was pretty sure Alex could hear his, too.

"You first?" Michael asked, waving an arm at the open doors.

"Hey, listen…" Alex motioned for him to go first. "Age before beauty!"

Okay. _That_ was funny. Grudgingly, Michael smiled and stepped out first. "Right."

Under his feet, the ground sounded and felt different. Enough light from the elevator allowed them to see.

"Wood planks. Looks like a walkway," Michael said.

"And what's that on the wall?"

Turning, Michael saw an oil lantern on a shelf-like crevice in the rock wall. Even more curious, there was a matchbook beside it.

"Convenient," Alex remarked. He held the lantern while Michael lit the wick.

"Don't complain."

"I'm not. But somebody besides us has been here. We're not the only ones who know this is here."

"Uh-huh. And what's this?'"

Alex held up the lamp before responding. "_This_ is dangerous. Whatever you do, watch your step."

Michael's eyes widened. Just how far down did this place go, anyway? The moss-covered, somewhat slippery stone stairs offered no banister and, at the top where they were, the steps were barely wide enough to offer protection between them and a fifty-foot drop.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeewwww!" Mahone complained behind him, retching. "I'm gonna be sick. What the hell is that?"

"Don't ask." Michael lifted his shirt to cup around his nose and throat.

That stench clinging to the air, he'd smelled something similar before. Reminiscent of decaying meat…but worse. A winged creature, either a bat or an owl, it was hard to tell which, screeched and batted its wings past them, almost knocking them off their feet. Michael grabbed at the wall. The lantern, in Mahone's grasp, banged hard against the wall. It looked like he was about to drop it.

"You got it?" Michael called to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it." He cussed, then inspected the hand that had scraped against the wall.

"Looks like a nasty gash."

"I'd be messed up a lot worse than that if my ass had gotten knocked off these stairs." Wincing, Alex wiped the blood onto his beige pants leg. "_Owww_. Just go. Come on! Let's get down further, where we won't break our necks if we fall."

Toward the bottom of the stairs was a blood-chilling sight. Off to the side, slumped against the wall, was the half-rotted corpse of a man. This one appeared to be an American—another foreigner, like themselves, sentenced to that Panamanian hellhole. His mouth was open in a perpetual scream and his eyes appeared to have been gouged out. The expression on his face, part of which had been eaten away by rats or maggots or other creatures, was of inexplicable terror.

"Maybe we should turn around," Mahone suggested, his voice shaking slightly.

"Look—water."

"Water? Where?"

"There. And…a boat." Michael shook his head. "Damn. What is this place?"

Sure enough, there in that passage that led from the building into a cave, was a body of water. Dark, black water. There was no telling how deep it was, nor how far it extended.

"There's a river in hell, supposedly," Michael mused out loud. "Isn't there?"

"Correct. The River Styx. _Dante's_ _Inferno_, I think."

Grinning, Michael untied the boat's rope from the makeshift pier. "I thought Styx was the name of a band in the 70s."

"It was." Alex got into the boat and carefully set down the lantern, then grabbed one of the two oars as Michael climbed aboard. He broke into song, hamming it up: "Babe, I'm leavin'/I must be on my way/the time is drawing near/my train is going/I see it in your eyes/the love, the need, your tears/and I'll be lonely without you/I'll need your love to see me through…"

"That was dreadful!" Michael said, doing a poor impression of Simon Cowell. "But Paula and Randy will love you, I'm sure."

But Mahone ignored him, now on a roll, with both rowing and singing, hilariously off-key. "You know it's yoooooou, babe/whenever I get weary and I've had enough/feel like giving up/you know it's yooooooou, babe/giving me the courage and the strength I need/please believe that it's true…"

Michael gave up and joined in, singing, "And, babe, I love yoooooou!"

"Ahhhh, only a dork would know the words to that song!"

Behind him, Mahone wasn't being mean; he was kidding around.

"A dork. That'd be you," Michael told him.

"Oh, yeah. Like _you're_ so cool."

_Look at him, _Michael thought then. Sitting there in that boat, smiling and laughing and goofing around with him so easily. He could have almost liked the man. Almost. Mahone could have very easily been out on a boat on some lake out on the country with him, fishing for trout or bass to bring back to a cabin where Sara and Pam waited with a couple bottles of Chardonnay for their guys to come home. So Alex had a fun-loving, goofy side to him, proving he was a guy that, maybe in another time and another place, as the old cliché goes, would have made for a great friend, the kind you can laugh and shoot the breeze with for hours.

But reality slapped Michael hard in the face: This was the man who'd ended his father's life. This was the man who would have framed him and Lincoln and left them in that Godforsaken place to die, if Michael hadn't been quicker on his feet. This was the man who had ruined everything, ultimately, for him and Sara.

He whipped around, giving Alex his back. He got back down to business. "How long do you suppose we should do this?"

"I don't know. Till we get somewhere, I guess. You mad at me? Come on, don't be a jerk. I was just bustin' you—"

"I know you were. Like we were old friends, you and I. Well, we're not, Alex." Michael glowered at him over his shoulder. "We will _never_ be friends."

Alex stopped rowing for a moment, his oar poised in the air. His mouth twitched and his chest rose and fell with his breath. "Yeah, I know, you already told me. You see me, you see the man who killed your dad. We—you, me—we're both up to our necks in trouble in this place, but you don't want to work with me, put that aside. Oh, no, not you. I'm trying to—I don't know. I can't make that up to you and I know it's not enough to say I'm sorry, but—"

"Saying you're sorry? That's supposed to make it all right?"

"Damn." Another word followed that, one much rougher, mumbled under Alex's breath. "It's not supposed to do anything. Look, I killed your father and I'm sorry I did. I'm. Sorry. Michael. I thought I was doing my job."

"Say you're sorry already," Michael snapped, "and then don't start in with your excuses. You're always making excuses for the things you've done, Alex. That doesn't cut it."

"I'm not making—look, Scofield," Alex paused, shifting in his seat on the boat, "I just—I did a lot of things that are just—that I have to live with. Okay? But I did what I had to do or what I thought I had to do. I made a lot of bad decisions—"

"That's putting it mildly—"

"STOP INTERRUPTING ME!" Alex exploded. It took a second, but he composed himself. He rubbed a hand over his mouth gruffly and went on. "Tell me something, Michael. Are your hands clean? With your big, elaborate plan to break your brother out of prison…anybody get hurt along the way? Anybody lose their life? Did your conscience bother you? Make you stop? Or did you just keep right on goin', cause nothing was gonna stop you from protecting those you loved? Right?" His next words were spoken through clenched teeth. "But you just go right on judging _me_. You…self-righteous little bastard."

Challenged and angered, Michael turned around, only to be thrown off balance by the sudden, pronounced rocking of the boat. It was as if they were whitewater rafting, the vessel was rocking and shaking so much, and yet the water was as calm as a serene mountain lake.

"Alex—the lantern!" he shouted.

Mahone reached for it but it was too late. His oar sank into the water as the flames from the lantern ignited and the portside of the wooden boat caught fire. Michael exchanged a helpless glance with him, both men shooting to their feet, both knowing what was about to happen, that they were left with no choice but to abandon the boat.

And to jump into the water. To make matters worse, Michael, the color draining from his face, saw something out of the corner of his eye and knew what had caused the boat to become unsteady.

There were hands—three, four, five pairs of them—the skin mottled and gray with death, the fingernails having grown into blackened claws, reaching out of their watery grave and grabbing onto the sides of the vessel.

_Note to Readers: Thanks for reading & commenting! I really appreciate that. I'm trying to update this a lot better than I have in the past. I hope to have Chapter 6 up in a few days, too. Cheers! -- Seabluemermaid_


	6. Chapter 6

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER SIX**

Dancing flames ate away at the rowboat's old wood, which creaked miserably. One second Alex was on his feet, the intense heat permeating from the fire causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Then, in the next second, he had lost his balance and tumbled over the side of the violently shaking boat. Into the water he fell.

Horrified, he opened his mouth, taking in huge swallows of that filthy water. Alex thrashed around, with revulsion rising from his stomach. Dark water, just about black, but not mercifully dark enough. Even under the surface he could still make out the lifeless faces and the bluish-green limbs coming toward him.

_Oh, no, oh, God, gotta get out, gotta get out, out, out, out!_

He poked his head through the surface and gasped for air. As foul as the air in that cave was, it now tasted sweet to him, reviving.

That was before he felt the hands closing in around his arms. The hands clutching at his waist. Hands on his head. All of them, together, forcibly pulling him back under the surface.

Alex could almost feel another fragile thread of his sanity snapping. As if his sanity hadn't been in enough trouble. He'd made it through the Company. He'd made it through Shales. And Bill Kim. Barely, and with the help of his addiction, but he'd made it through.

But now he was being drowned by those who had die there in that secretive part of Sona. It was almost too much for him to bear. He tried to fight, but they were stronger. Each time he raised his head above water, they dragged him back down with supernatural strength. More alarmingly, he could feel them biting at his flesh, at his arms, his legs, his neck.

Alex swallowed more water. A breath—one last breath. That was all he wanted. How long did it take to die this way? He'd read about it some years ago, a scene in a book where a character was in the process of drowning. A Nelson DeMille novel, maybe. At the time, he'd marveled that it sounded like an especially excruciating way to lose one's life. His lungs felt like they were filled with lead, like they'd explode, completely useless to him.

Pam and his son. They came to mind in those, his last moments on earth. They would never know what had happened, that he'd died there, so many feet under Sona, at the hands of its long-dead prisoners. His face contorted with a drowned cry. He was about to become one of them.

One of those monsters.

Then, one by one, they began to release him. Alex could see movement in the water. Something struck the surface again and again, and he could make out a voice—was that Scofield's? But that couldn't be. Michael Scofield would never help him. Never in a million years.

Another set of arms wrapped around him. He could vaguely make out the face: That _was_ Michael. Alex tried not to struggle, allowing Michael to glide him through the water to the lake's banks, though the bites were strong and burning like hell. With his head above the surface, he sputtered and fought for air.

Once out of the water, everything he'd swallowed projected out of him with force. Michael helped him as best he could, but Alex still fell forward, striking his head against a rock. He cried out, wildly grabbing at the bites, terrified to feel something slimy and insect-like on his skin.

"Leeches," he heard Michael say behind him. "They're leeches, Alex."

"Oh—oh—_ow_!" Mahone grunted haltingly, slapping at the parasites. "Off! _Get off me!_"

That came as a relief. Somewhat. The bites had come from those—what were leeches, anyway? Bugs. Big, black, ugly, worm-like bugs. Something living rather than those murderous dead things.

"They're on me, too." Soothingly, Michael spoke, in spite of the fact that he was doing the same thing, struggling to get the leeches off himself. "Calm down, Alex. Easy. You're all right now."

"Mmmm—uhmmmm—no, no. No! I'm not." He rubbed at the bump on his forehead, already turning black and blue.

_Those dead things. Dead, dead things. They _touched _me._

"God, I need my pills. I wish I had my pills." He gulped in more much-needed air. Then he turned to look at Michael, who was squinting at him.

"No, you don't. You'll be fine," Scofield said firmly. "You're all right."

"They—wanted—they w-wanted to—" When his lower lip quivered, Mahone looked away, stopping himself in time before he started crying and howling like a baby. Along with his sanity, now his dignity was also endangered.

"But they didn't. Okay? Come on, Alex. Be strong. I need you to help us get out of here."

Alex began to shiver uncontrollably. The water wasn't cold, but he was shaking like a leaf. He sat up, wrapped his arms around his knees, and rocked back and forth.

"I s-s-saw a gh-ghost before." With his head shaking, his hair dripped water into his eyes. "I know they exist, whether you b-believe it oh-or not. But n-n-not like these. These are b-bad ghosts."

Michael stepped closer to him and crouched down. "They _are_ bad ghosts. You're right. And it makes sense. They were once bad _men_."

Mahone frowned at him. Was that just a random comment? Or was Scofield hinting at something else? He hoped that wasn't true, that the things he'd done in his life would manifest themselves in what he became afterwards. He didn't want to see himself that way, like one of those hideous, hateful ghosts. But he started to calm down, finally. "Why are they leaving us alone now?"

"I don't know. But I kept hitting them with my oar. They fought me, too, but for some reason they backed off." He shrugged. "You're all right, though. Aren't you?"

It surprised Alex, how good it felt to take a deep breath again. "Yeah. Only because you saved my life."

Michael said nothing. With his head bowed, his brow knit, he rubbed his hands together, looking pensive.

"Part of me says we should turn back," he said, pointedly avoiding Mahone's words. "But then I think…we've come so far. And through so much."

"You could've left me here to die. I was drowning, Michael. I would've died, if it weren't for you."

"Don't—don't do that. Look, forget it, Alex. Just forget it."

Mahone nodded and wiped his nose on his already-wet sleeve. He was a little hurt by Michael's response, but he knew it was best to gloss over it. They didn't have time for it right now, obviously.

And yet…how was a man supposed to forget something like that? Here he was, the blood of Scofield's father still fresh on his hands, and yet Michael had put himself in danger in order to rescue him from certain death. Alex felt more than rising respect for the man; he was in awe.

_We will never be friends._ Those had been Scofield's words to him not so long ago, right before he'd fallen into the river of death. Mahone ran a hand through his hair, shaking off some of the water.

He looked up to see Michael staring at something. "What—what is it now?"

Alex turned to follow his gaze. There, on the wall behind them, the fire from the burning boat cast a glow. In that reflected light was an odd shadow, something that appeared to be in the form of a bird, perhaps a swan.

"I've seen that before," Alex murmured.

"It's—I've made that. Origami."

"Origami. Paper art, folded-up animals, right?" That day in the car with Agent Kellerman came to mind, when Paul had handed him that small paper swan.

"Yes."

Mahone blinked twice, clearing his eyes. Under the show of the origami swan was a figure. His chest tensed with his erratic heartbeat again.

Another ghost. God, he needed to see another ghost like he needed a damn heart attack. Except…this ghost wasn't terrifying nor ugly. This apparition appeared to be dressed in a long brown shawl. Long, dark hair peeked out from under the shawl's heavy hood. The face wasn't visible, but the hands were definitely feminine.

The shadow of the origami disappeared from the wall as the ghost turned. She was stepping along a walkway up the wall, but she stopped briefly to turn and acknowledge them.

_"Mi-chael. Mi-chael—come,"_ the specter spoke.

Mahone understood. He saw Michael's reaction, how his thoughts were written on his face, plain as day. He was having trouble wrapping his mind around this whole thing.

A female spirit, crossing over from the Great Beyond, calling to him and leading the way.

El Cura was right, Alex decided.

This was his chance, however meager, to reciprocate the kindness Michael Scofield had shown to him. Gently taking him by the elbow, he guided the younger man to his feet. The figure, seeing them rise, appeared to nod her approval. Then she turned and continued up the pathway slowly.

"We're going to follow a ghost?" Michael whispered incredulously.

"That's not a ghost, Michael. That's the angel. She's watching over you."


	7. Chapter 7

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Running through that place in sheer terror was, simply put, an invitation to abuse. Brad Bellick knew that, and yet he couldn't help himself. Whatever had come over T-Bag wasn't human. It wasn't even of this world.

He didn't get far, though. One of the goons who'd raped him placed a well-aimed foot in his way, sending Brad flying. He landed unceremoniously in a puddle of mud. Behind him, coarse laughter rained. Their fun over, the audience moved on.

In another time, Brad wouldn't have put up with it. Now, with no choice, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, cringing from the two-inch gash on his knee. Had he broken a bone? It sure felt like it. Walking gave him enough difficulty as it was.

"_Señor, oyeme—ven aqui!"_

A young man of dark olive complexion, apparently calling to him, stood in a doorway. Knowing he couldn't afford to disrespect anyone, even some young punk, Brad gave him a wave. The kid shook his head.

"El Cura need to see you," he said in broken English. "You come to his house. Now."

"Ahhhh…" Frustrated, he coughed out a laugh.

An invitation. To the man's "house", no less. Whatever "El Cura" meant, Brad wasn't prepared for it. He was still shaking after seeing T-Bag do something right in front of him that wasn't humanly possible.

But if he didn't comply, if he refused…how would this "El Cura" retaliate?

_Dear God, why don't they just leave me alone? Please._ And Scofield and Mahone—where were they? What the hell was taking them so long? Had they gotten themselves into something they couldn't get out of?

"I really—I—"

"You come in. Please, _señor._"

_Señor. _That meant "mister" or "sir", right? No one had called him that, there in Sona. Reluctantly, he nodded and entered the "house" where his presence had been requested.

What was he getting himself into? He surveyed the room, with its framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and other religious art, of beads and maracas and other items on a small table covered with a white cloth. Off to the side, another young man, his eyes closed, beat skillfully at the skins of some old bongos.

Into the room from another stepped an elderly man. His leathery skin lined, his hands much steadier than Bellick's, he was dressed all in white from his shirt to his well-worn moccasins. He smiled at Bellick—the first person there besides the few he knew who'd smiled at him—and set a bowl of stew down onto another table.

"You sit," the old man told him. "You eat."

Brad sighed. Could he argue with _that_? Man, he was starving. He hadn't sat down to a decent meal in all the time he'd been there.

But why was this happening? Why was the old man being so kind to him? Didn't he know he was one of Sona's punching bags?

"Uh, I think I need to speak with somebody named…El Cura."

"I am El Cura." The old man brought out another temptation in the form of a bowl of bread. "Please. Eat."

What could a man do? His stomach growled just at the sight of the food. Brad didn't need to be told again. He sat down and ate what was put before him.

"_Sancocho,_" the first young man said, indicating the stew. "El Cura makes it very good, no?"

"Yeah, he does. My compliments to the chef!" Stupid thing to say, Brad thought, but maybe if he showed himself to be agreeable and a polite guest, no one would hurt him.

It had come down to that. Hoping others wouldn't treat him cruelly. The _sancocho_ was a delight, a hearty mix of meat, chicken and vegetables in a savory broth. Brad tried not to embarrass himself. What he wanted was to gobble it down like a savage; his hunger was that brutal. Instead he ate slowly, minding his manners as much as he could while being ravenous. He dipped pieces of the bread in the bowl to moisten it.

_"Muy bueno!"_ he told El Cura.

The old man chuckled. He motioned to the young man, who dutifully brought Brad a glass of ice and, of all things, a frosty can of Coke.

"Oh-my-God," Brad breathed.

"Is okay?" The young man looked worried.

"Oh, oh, everything's _great_. Thank you."

Coca Cola. He never thought he'd ever see that again. It might as well have been the finest wine on earth. He didn't rush, admiring the white-and-red can for a moment before he poured it into the glass of ice. It looked like black gold, cascading over the ice cubes and forming that creamy lather like a good, imported beer.

Brad couldn't help himself; he gulped that one down in a few wonderful swallows.

El Cura sat down facing him. He spoke in Spanish as the young man on the bongos stopped playing to join them. The old man addressed him as Armando.

"He wants me to tell you," Armando relayed to Bellick, "that he knows you were frightened before by the man with the evil spirit in him."

Brad looked from the young man to El Cura and nodded. "Yeah. You're right. I was scared. I was—I don't even know how to explain it."

Again El Cura spoke, and the translation said: "Never show fear in the face of evil."

_And that's one to file under, Easier Said Than Done,_ Brad thought.

Yet he was grateful to his generous host and only gave a respectful nod.

"All I've done here in Sona is fear," he admitted softly, speaking more to himself. "I'm afraid of everyone. I'm afraid…I'm gonna die here."

He waited patiently as his words were translated for El Cura. There were only a few spoonfuls of the _sancocho_ left, but he made sure to get every last drop of it. The food sent warmth not only through his belly but through his whole being. Amazing, the power a bit of nourishment had to strengthen a man's body.

El Cura attempted to speak English again. "In life, you do some bad things. I see another prison was in your life."

Brad's eyes widened. Who was this man? A Spanish-speaking Kreskin?

"Yeah. I was a prison guard. And yeah…I did a lot of bad things to people. A lot of things I'm ashamed of now."

El Cura nodded. He spoke at length in Spanish, and Armando gave the translation.

"Today is a new day, Mr. Bellick. Your hands have done wrong things, but there is also much good in you. What you need—what you have searched for—is purpose."

He still wasn't used to being so well treated. Brad folded his hands in his lap, watching as El Cura poured a cup of coffee from a pot behind him.

Was that for him? All right! First Coke, now coffee. He'd been denied fresh water, never mind a heavenly cup of joe. The old man was adding drops of cream and sugar, and Brad could have sworn every nerve ending in his body was jumping up and cheering in anticipation of all that caffeine.

"I appreciate that," he spoke earnestly. "Tell him I said that, please. Tell him that I've thought about that ever since I've been here. I've been doing a lot of thinking…"

He stopped to accept the cup from the old man's hands.

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" His voice broke with emotion on the last two words. In his excitement, he shook El Cura's hand, then kissed it, something he would have been too proud to ever do before. "I want to be a good person. I do. I don't want to go back to being who I was before. I'm being punished here for everything I've done. But I'm gonna change, I swear it."

As the young man translated, Brad took the chance to drink his coffee. It tasted strong and creamy and sweet. It tasted like the nectar of the gods. It tasted of a thousand mornings lived in freedom, before he'd been in that place…of his mother's kitchen, often filled with the aroma of bacon and eggs frying…of newspapers read and talking baseball and politics with buddies.

And it tasted of…something else. What was that, exactly?

El Cura hummed a tune absently as he turned his attention to a plain wooden box in the corner. From it he drew a handmade necklace. A simple, beaded piece, adorned by a single amulet fashioned with seeds surrounding a tiny seashell. Holding it in front of Brad, El Cura spoke some more in his native tongue.

"He wants you to have this gift," Armando explained. "He says you are to wear the macuto. It will bring you protection from evil among the spirits…" He paused as El Cura placed the necklace over Brad's head. "…and evil among the living."

"A necklace will protect me? From people here? No disrespect, but I wish I could believe that."

"Wear it, Mr. Bellick. If you wear it, everyone here knows who made it. And El Cura is the only one Lechero and his men fear."

"Okay, sure. I'll wear it. Thank you."

Brad touched the strange little amulet, inspecting it. It seemed to have an herbal scent to it. Then it blurred right before his eyes.

"Something's happening to me," he slurred the words.

It hadn't been his imagination. The old man had spiked his coffee with something. He should have known better than to believe someone would show him kindness for no good reason. Here, he thought El Cura had given him a meal out of the goodness of his heart.

But the room was spinning. And, when it stopped, he could see that he, El Cura, and the young men weren't the only ones in the room. There were others—several others. Hooded figures dressed in shrouds. Faceless, nameless figures appearing out of the shadows. He could taste fear rising in the back of his throat.

Brad opened his mouth to cry for help, but in a moment the darkness, like a heavy curtain, fell over his eyes.

The old man had poisoned him.

"Answer me, please. Who are you?"

Not that Michael had really expected the ghost to reply. He'd asked the same question twice before and had been met with the same reaction: silence. The spirit had just continued to walk on ahead of them with her head bowed.

Where was she taking them? And how far did that walkway extend? They couldn't have possibly still been within the confines of the prison. The walkway had led them to another cave, this one with stalagmites and stalactites. It would have been pitch-dark within the cave, but the spirit carried a lantern ahead of them to light their way. Although she walked with determination, it seemed to Michael that she walked as someone who was weary. Someone who was tired of her journey.

As he had several times before, he glanced back at Mahone, the third person in their quirky little procession. Alex said nothing but he offered Michael an encouraging wink.

Michael turned around and again attempted to speak to the ghost. "Could you at least tell me where we're going? Where are you taking us?"

"You have nothing to fear from me."

"I'm not afraid…uh…miss. I'm just asking. I—"

The ghost raised her hand. It was a gentle gesture, but still it silenced him.

They were passing through another portion of the cave where the walkway narrowed. As soon as they entered it, an uneasy feeling came over him. There was a sense there of oppression, of hopelessness. And of something evil. On either side, rooms had been built into the wall, each with heavy wooden doors. Each door had a small barred window through which projected light.

As they passed, men who had died in those rooms banged against the doors, making them shake precariously. Through one window was a face, the expression maniacal, the low rumble of its laughter diabolical. Another face, further up, stared at them with bright magenta eyes, its long, serpent-like tongue slithering out through the bars. A sickening stench filled the hallway.

"Mi-chael Sco-field, Alex-ander Ma-hone!"it chanted out in sing-song fashion. "Come inside here with me, sweet bitches. _AHAHAHAHAHAHA!_"

Michael glanced back at Alex. He wasn't winking now, but he sure was walking faster, his face as white as a sheet.

"Michael, Alex—don't listen to them. Stay close to me."

Without hesitation, Michael obeyed, slightly closing in the space between himself and the ghost.

_I feel safe with her,_ he realized. Wasn't that the craziest thing? He felt safe and protected by this ghost.

Oh, that's right: Mahone had referred to her as an angel. He'd specified that she wasn't a ghost but an angel.

Gratefully, they were at last a safe distance from those horrible cells. The pathway led them through another cave, but Michael could see that it was better lit. They seemed to be coming to the end of their trek.

He knew that for certain when he looked ahead. There it was—a huge gap, an opening, through which came the last glimmers of daylight. Though night was approaching, they could see the sun's light at its most golden.

Michael listened to the sounds in the distance. He drank in a breath, smelling something wonderfully familiar.

"That's the ocean," he said.

Carefully, he and Alex stood in the opening. It wasn't a very high drop, only fifteen feet or so, but there didn't appear to be anywhere nearby to swim to and a person could only float in open water for so long before tiring themselves out and drowning.

Still, Michael knew what that discovery meant. He shared a carefree laugh with Alex.

"We're free," Michael said.

"Yeah, but we're gonna need a boat," Alex pointed out, grinning mischievously. "You got the Christina Rose stashed away somewhere, you wicked mastermind, you?"

Michael laughed heartily. "No. But have faith. We can do this. We'll be free." He straightened up. That sounded too much like a friendly exchange between them. In a frostier tone, he added, "And then we'll go our separate ways."

"Yeah, sure. I know." Alex averted his eyes. It was undeniable that he looked wounded, but Michael told himself that was fine by him.

He didn't need nor did he desire Alex Mahone's friendship. Clearly, they needed each other to escape Sona. That, Michael understood. But after that, they would become as they once were to each other—total strangers. Suddenly, he heard light footsteps.

The angel was walking away. With her back to them, her slender shoulders were hunched. She cut a plaintive, heartbreaking figure.

"Listen," Alex whispered. "Hear that? Your angel's crying."

Michael called after her, "Angel. Angel! Don't leave. Please tell me who you are."

She didn't stop. She continued to walk, her soft crying fading as she disappeared down another corridor….


	8. Chapter 8

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 8**

Lincoln Burrows checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time since he'd been there, standing behind that steel fence. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

The Panama sun was scorching hot. It beat down on him, making his shirt cling to his back. He tried not to think about how thirsty he was, how he was aching for a cold glass of water to wash away the dryness in his throat. Again he stared out at the prisoners in the yard. Some noticed him but went about their own business, as if visitors from the outside, if not there for them, generated no interest to them. He searched their faces, looking for one that was familiar.

He was looking for his brother, but any of the other three—Mahone, Bellick, even T-Bag—would do. Anyone who could tell him where Michael was. He needed assurance that his younger brother was alive.

Linc sighed then, rubbing a crick out of his neck. People had told him that Sona was dangerous. That it harbored the worst of the worst in terms of criminals, who'd been left to their own devices, though guards still stood at the ready within the perimeters, their weapons poised to kill.

Some of the villagers—superstitious folks, to be sure—had been even more colorful in their descriptions. They'd crossed themselves when he'd uttered the word "Sona." The prison was haunted, they said, the most haunted place in all of Panama. They claimed that criminals ruled over one part of that patch of land and departed spirits ruled over the other.

But sometimes, they claimed, the ghosts would not stay in their part of Sona. According to the local newspaper itself, a team of psychics had come out to the place roughly a decade earlier. They had concluded that the legend of Sona was true and that the ghostly activity recorded there was among the highest they had ever seen on earth.

Linc Burrows did not believe in ghosts, but he'd found those stories mildly entertaining nonetheless.

One of those familiar faces that he'd been hoping to see appeared. He never thought he'd be happy to see Brad Bellick, but ironically enough, he was. Bellick looked like he was just passing by, wandering aimlessly, but he heard Linc call to him. Without delay he made his way over to the fence. The former C.O. looked to have lost a few pounds, which spoke of his experiences so far at Sona. He wore a sleeveless shirt and dark pants that showed every speck of dust on them. When he came nearer, Linc could see he was also sporting some strange beaded jewelry around his neck. Now if Bellick would just cooperate—and judging from past experience, that would take a miracle—Linc could breathe easier.

"Hey, how you doin'?" It was a nicety, a formality. Linc couldn't have cared less how Bellick was doing.

"Uh, well…" Bellick shrugged, then smiled. "As good as can be in this place. How about you? You see your brother?"

_He's alive._ A trace of hope sparked in him. "Not yet."

"I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Would you? I'd appreciate that. I really need to speak to him."

"I know you do. Oh, and, uh, Burrows—you got a pen?"

"A—a pen? No." Linc scowled, his curiosity piqued.

"How's your memory? Can you remember something if I tell you?"

"Why?"

He wasn't in the mood for Bellick's deception. On the other hand, something in the man's demeanor made Linc humor him. Seeing him step closer to the fence, Linc did the same, listening to Bellick whisper the address of an abandoned warehouse.

"It's close by to here," he told Linc, still in a whisper.

"Okay, so? What's there?"

"You'll find them there."

"Who?"

"Maricruz and her aunt."

Linc stared at him, unblinking.

"Sucre will want to know that. Tell him they have food and water. They should be all right, but, uh…" Bellick swallowed hard and nodded. "You should hurry anyway. Her being pregnant and all."

Linc observed him. Why was he giving up that information so easily? He hadn't even asked for it. Dropping his gaze, he noticed Bellick fidgeting with the amulet dangling from the necklace, some trinket which had as its center a small seashell.

"I'll go tell your brother you're here."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Waiting until Bellick was out of sight, Linc shook his head and gave a low whistle. That made _no_ kinda sense whatsoever. Was he supposed to believe that Brad Bellick, a major creep if ever there was one, had turned over a new leaf? That he'd had some sort of epiphany that made him remember he was supposed to be a human being and have a semblance of a heart beating in him?

_How's your memory? Can you remember something if I tell you?_

Out loud, in a loud whisper, Linc repeated the warehouse's address to himself a few times. Even that might've been a mistake. Knowing Bellick, maybe that was a trap. The address was real, all right, and so was the warehouse—but maybe once he got there, there'd be somebody waiting there and it wouldn't be Fernando Sucre's girlfriend and her aunt.

Yet within himself Linc sensed that that was the case. He didn't know how he could tell that, but Brad Bellick was telling him the truth. There was something sincere, something almost caring in the way he'd said, _They'll be all right, but you should hurry anyway._ Those didn't sound like words that should have been coming from his mouth, but they were.

Linc didn't have any more time to give the matter thought. He and Michael both spotted each other at the same time, when Michael was on that second level. He watched as his brother picked up the pace and headed down the stairs so fast that he fretted Michael would stumble. He smiled all the way through the yard until he came to stand on the other side of that fence.

He was alive. After all the horror stories he'd heard about Sona, Linc had come to fear he would come to the prison and find he was too late, that Michael was gone. He remembered the first time he'd seen him in Fox River, the shock he'd experienced when he realized what his brother had done. This seemed to cut through him even more painfully, now that that fence was between them.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, Michael." He hadn't planned for those to be his first words to his brother, yet they were, spoken from the deepest part of his heart.

Michael's grin was doleful. He shuffled his feet, nearing the fence and speaking low.

"I don't have a lot time, Linc," he whispered. "I have so much to tell you. Just don't have the time right now…but we're gonna need a boat."

"A _boat_?" This was even more confusing than the encounter with Bellick. "Where am I supposed to get a boat?"

"Don't worry. Doesn't have to be as big as the _Christina Rose_. I wish I could tell you more, but I don't have the specifics because we found all this underground. This place behind us…" Ever so subtly, Michael tossed his head to indicate the prison. "…underneath there's like these catacombs or caves, they're…they go on and on, but I'm not sure for how far. Felt like we traveled a good four or five miles, I think. The caves end at the ocean. If you can find the opening to the cave, you'll find us. We're thinking about leaving here on Saturday night. Late. But we'll need you. We can't do this without you."

"Who's 'we'?"

Michael licked his lips before going on. "It looks like it's gonna be me and Mahone. We might need Bellick, too, but I haven't spoken to him yet."

Linc's expression hardened. He'd trust those two about as far as he could throw each of the bastards. He approached a different matter, more out of his own curiosity. "There are caves down there? How'd you find out about that?"

Michael coughed out a dry laugh. "You wouldn't believe it."

"Try me."

Was that color flooding his brother's face? "The ghosts led us there. Well, part of the way. My angel led us straight to the ocean."

Shocked to hear that explanation coming from Michael, Linc was a sudden loss for words. Recovering, he tried to gather his thoughts together, trying to decide which question to ask first.

"Your angel," he clarified. "That's what you said, right? Your angel?"

"Linc, why didn't Sara come with you? Is she all right?"

"I don't know where she is." Good. Even to his own ears, that response sounded natural.

As it should have. He'd practiced it enough. He knew to expect that question, that a visit to Michael wouldn't pass without mention of Sara Tancredi.

"I'm not totally in agreement with you doing this with Mahone," Linc took the opportunity to change the subject abruptly. "Bellick, maybe—but not Mahone."

"I don't have a choice, Linc. We'll need to get a raft down there, now that we don't have the boat. Or something we can use that will float like a raft."

"What? I thought you said you need a boat."

"That's—that's for the ocean. Look, it's confusing, I know. There's the ocean and then there's this waterway, like a canal, in the cave itself. Just let us worry about it. In the meantime, Linc, I need to know Sara's all right." Michael's eyes grew stormy, reflecting his emotion. "She means everything to me, Linc. Find her."

Linc avoided meeting his eyes. "Let's focus on getting you out of here first, all right? One thing at a time. Right now, getting that boat is my priority. And I swear, if either Mahone or Bellick causes us any trouble, I'm tossing both their asses overboard."

"That's fine." Michael's tone was dismissive, the expression in his eyes faraway. "And afterwards, I'll find Sara myself. I've been dreaming about her a lot lately. I want to see her in something other than my dreams, Linc."

Finally, Linc met his gaze. He almost told him, coming very close to the admission. Luckily, he bit his tongue. He couldn't tell him. Not yet.

There was no telling what the truth would do to Michael, but Linc knew it would affect him and his will to survive.

"Saturday night," he repeated.

"Late," Michael reminded him. "I wish I could give you a definite time, but I can't."

"And if for some reason you're not there—"

"Oh, we'll be there. We _have_ to be."

It wasn't pretty and it wasn't state-of-the-art, but it would do in a pinch. The real question was: Would it hold his weight and Michael's? And Bellick's, if they needed him to come along?

Alex banged a fist hard on the table, testing how much it rattled from the motion. An old table made of wood. The legs were rotted, pretty much, and that was no problem. They'd be ripping the legs off it anyway. Prisoners from the past—and had someone carved in the date _14 enero 1942_?—had left their names and artwork to fade on its surface, some reminder that they'd been there. No longer of much use, the table had been left, forgotten, in a room where mostly clutter and garbage gathered, a room that stank even worse in the unforgiving heat.

Well, they had their raft. It would be heavy and cumbersome, but between them they'd get it down there. It'd definitely fit in the freight elevator, no problem.

Only thing…what would they use for oars?

"Throwing a party, _muchacho_?" The question had come from the doorway.

Tensing, Alex turned on his heel. He relaxed when he saw it was one of the other inmates, a scrawny, nasty man around Scofield's age who'd never seemed to have learned to mind his own business. His real name now escaped Alex, but other prisoners called him by his nickname, Indio.

"Yeah, I'm throwing a party," he tossed back, hoping that would get Indio off his back.

"Oh, oh. No good. You are not inviting me." Indio smiled, but under the veneer was clear malice.

He wouldn't do anything to Mahone himself. That would have required some degree of courage, and Indio was one of the more cowardly inmates. When he fought, he did so with his friends, usually stacking the odds at three thugs to one man. Alex didn't have time for it, nor was he much in the mood for being ganged up on.

"Of course we're inviting you! Don't be silly. Just haven't sent out the invitations yet." Mahone flashed his most charming smile, his tone genteel. "Hey, you won't wanna miss it. We're having a DJ and a cash bar, and—oh, we're catering the affair. Plus, get this—we're flying in Jennifer Lopez! She'll be singing and dancing for us."

Even though he knew it was a joke, that really made Indio's day. It was common knowledge around Sona that Indio was a big J-Lo fan. It didn't matter that the inmate was uglier than sin and his breath was as sweet as decaying cheese. Just the mention of her endeared Alex to him. For a short time, though. Indio didn't like anyone on a permanent basis, or so experience had taught Alex.

"Ah, Jennifer! _Que sexy, mami!_" Indio, laughing and satisfied that there was nothing of interest going on in that room, continued lusting out loud after the famous actress and singer on his way out to the yard to join his usual cohorts.

Mahone also stepped out, and wisely so. For now, the table could stay where it was; no one would be taking it. He suspected it had been there for decades and it wasn't going anywhere. When the time came, he and Michael could stealthily remove it and transport it, the quicker the better, down to the elevator.

Or maybe they'd find a more suitable "raft". That was okay. He wasn't married to the beat-up old table. If Scofield or even Bellick found something they thought would work better, then great. More power to them. Anything was preferable to swimming, though. Although he could have done it, Alex wasn't about to swim all that way. The leeches were reason enough to avoid going for that toxic swim. His skin was still tender where they'd latched onto him. But what bothered him even more were those other things buried right beneath the surface. Neither the table nor another makeshift raft was guarantee that they wouldn't be shaken off, either. That was a chance they just couldn't afford to take.

He headed in the direction of the elevator. He had his reasons. Realistically, it made more sense to avoid that area, not to draw attention from the other inmates, especially not Lechero or anyone associated with him. Among his reasons was the privacy factor—the fact that the other men avoided that section of the prison.

Right now, the one thing Alex needed was his privacy. Glancing over his shoulder and assured that he wasn't being followed, he continued down the corridor, moving as fast as his legs would carry him without breaking into a full sprint.

As he walked, he reached into his pocket. His old friend, the hollowed-out pen, was there. But now it was no longer hollow. Holding it to his ear, he grinned, hearing the barely audible tinkle. Alex stopped when he was far enough down the dimly lit hallway to lean against the wall. Then, slowly, he tapped the pills he'd gotten from an inmate called Rubio, who was said to be able to get just about anything, into his hand.

Rubio had complied too easily, Alex recalled. And he hadn't specified what his price would be. That was cause for alarm, but Mahone couldn't think of that right now. He was trembling inside and out, standing there, alternating between staring at the pills and peering out for any unwelcome visitors, either of the live or dead persuasion.

_You can play now,_ Rubio had joked, _and pay me later. I'll be sending you the bill for your good time._

With his free hand, Alex rubbed his face. Something told him he'd written out a check he wouldn't very well be able to cash. Those weren't his pills, either. He was playing with fire, trusting a dangerous man who'd smiled casually and told him not to worry, that whatever drugs he got hold of for him would calm him down.

_Throw them away, Dad._

Alex almost dropped the pills, his hand was shaking so hard. Naturally, Cam had never said those words to him, though he could almost hear him speaking them in his heart. In his little boy's eyes, he was strong. And perfect. How could Daddy be any less?

And that was what Cameron deserved. The kind of father he'd tried to be, once upon a time. Not the worthless junkie he'd become.

But what could he do?

Before he could change his mind, Alex popped the pills into his mouth and chewed them down.

Later, he would quit. How could he be expected to quit there? He wouldn't even allow himself to think about it right now. To give it a lot of thought now would only reduce him to tears born of his shame. Not exactly a useful activity right now.

Instead he stood up to his full stature over six feet tall, trying to hold up his head. He couldn't get the monkey totally off his back there, in that place, but he'd quit soon. Very soon. By Saturday he'd be out of there. He and Michael would literally sail away from that place, and they were going their own separate ways, which was just as well because he'd be going home.

That was what all he wanted: To go home.

Walking slower now, more painfully, Alex continued down the hall. How would that work, he wondered? Either the FBI, or worse, the ones who'd kept him as their personal attack dog would come after him. That was the truth; that was reality.

But he could still hope, couldn't he? He blinked back angry, hot tears. There had to be a way to go back to life as it was, to normalcy, and he just hadn't thought of it yet. He could still envision those days, before Shales, before Kim, when he'd put in a full day's work and then go home to his wife and son. He'd lived for those times. Maybe, somehow, even if it was to a different extent, he'd find that life again.

All he needed to find Home was Pam and their son.

Suddenly, something sounded at the other end of that corridor. Alex stopped so fast, he almost stumbled. He held his breath, afraid even to breathe.

There it was again: footsteps. A figure emerged, stepping in front of the day. Recalling his last experiences with the departed, Mahone gasped in a sharp breath.

Was this the result of the pills Rubio had given him? A drug-induced hallucination? He hoped that was it. He preferred that to the truth.

But this was no hallucination. He could feel that in his soul. This was actually happening.

"Who are you?" he whispered. Staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed solidly on the figure, he watched it emerge from the shadows. "Oh. Oh—that's not possible. Y-you're dead." His voice rose to a strangled shout, "That's not possible!"


	9. Chapter 9

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 9**

Across the yard, tucked out of plain view but still visible, were seven oil drums. All empty. More would collect there before inmates were finally assigned to dispose of them. After all, Sona wasn't some cozy suburb. Like most other things there, the removal of trash wasn't at the top of the priority list.

Michael looked around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear them. Then he leaned in closer to Bellick.

"All we need is two of those, you think?" he asked.

"Yeah. The table Mahone told you about?" Bellick wrinkled his nose. "Thing's not gonna float unless you got two of those or somethin' like them strapped onto it. Even then, we're taking a chance."

"Fine. Nobody's gonna miss two oil drums, right?"

"I doubt it. Especially not if we move them one at a time. Get them down to that elevator you guys talked about."

"Good."

"But we'll need something to strap them on there with. Where are we gonna get rope? And what're we using for oars?"

Michael paused. He hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Also, he was more than a bit distracted. That conversation with his brother had left him with an uneasy feeling. He was worried about Sara and Linc had done nothing to ease his fears.

"You seem to be on good terms with Mr. Witchdoctor," Michael said, smiling. "Why don't you see if he can conjure up some rope for us?"

"I'll see about that today and let you know."

"Great."

"So, what about the oars?"

"Give me some time. Gotta be something we can use that'll be strong and go down ten or twenty feet, so we can navigate the raft."

Bellick nodded but looked doubtful. "Say this doesn't work. The thing don't float. I mean, I know this is gonna come as a shock to you, Scofield, but I was no boy scout growing up. I never made a raft before. We can just swim through, right? Water's dirty and it's got bugs in it, but we can swim it?"

"No. We can't swim through there. They're not just bugs, they're leeches. And there are…other things in that water, Bellick. Worse than leeches. They tried to kill Mahone."

Understanding, Bellick nodded. "Raft or no raft, what's to stop them from coming after us again?"

"Nothing." The answer was brutally honest. Michael glared straight at him. "If you don't want to take that chance, back out now."

"I'm not backing out. I just want to know what we're up against. That's all."

The response had been firm but soft-spoken. Now that was as strange as some of the other things that had been going on there. Bellick? Soft-spoken? That was a new one.

"You seem different," Michael remarked.

"Different? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You don't seem yourself lately." Realizing those words could be viewed as confrontational, Michael shook his head and looked away.

"You seen T-Bag lately?"

"No. Come to think of it, I haven't."

"Well, now, there's a fella who ain't been himself lately."

"Oh, yeah? Who's he been?"

Bellick gave a mysterious little laugh, though he rubbed his hands nervously against his pants leg. "Trust me. You don't wanna know."

Michael frowned. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mahone across the way. He was half walking, half trotting out of one door, almost tripping over his own feet.

"You talk to El Cura." Michael added then, cautioning, "But don't tell him too much."

"We have nothing to fear from the old man."

"Don't. Trust. Anyone!" Michael admonished sternly. "I'll talk to you tonight. We'll need to get one of the drums down there late, maybe near dawn."

He didn't wait for Bellick's reply. Michael had already begun making his way over to Mahone, who'd also seen him.

Something was wrong with him. Michael noticed it right away. The tall, lanky rogue lawman was shaking almost uncontrollably and his face was ashen. More encounters with those other prisoners in Sona? The ones who'd never been buried? Instinctively Michael looked up at the blaring sun in the canopy of azure sky above then. This had happened in broad daylight?

On second thought, considering where they were, Michael wasn't surprised.

"Calm down, Alex," he whispered.

Bleary-eyed, his hair so mussed that he looked like a madman, Mahone met his stare.

"I gotta get outta here," he blurted out. "I wanna go home. This place—you won't believe it, you won't believe what I saw—"

"Come here. And _shut up_!"

Instantly, Michael's temper flared. He almost dragged Alex out of the yard, gripping handfuls of his shirt.

"You sonofabitch!" Michael spat out. "You took something, didn't you? Answer me!"

He was close enough to see how dilated Mahone's pupils were, the black in them almost pushing out the blue of his eyes. He was clearly dazed, disoriented, waking up slightly when Michael shoved him back against the wall. He managed to control himself; though not a physically violent man by nature, he felt dangerously close to beating Mahone with his fists.

"I don't see where that's any of your damn business," Alex snapped. "But, yeah, I took something. So what?"

"So? I'm trusting you, Alex. I'm trusting you to help me get us out of this place. And you're off somewhere, getting your fix. What the hell did you take, anyway?"

"Man, I don't need to hear this crap—"

"YES, you DO!" Michael shoved him a second time.

As expected, Mahone grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him forward, snarling at him.

"I…just…saw…Apolskis!" Seeing the shock register in Michael's expression, Alex gave a sharp nod of his head. "Yeah. David Apolskis. You know, your little buddy, Tweener. I saw him, Michael. As clear as I'm seeing you right now." Roughly, he released Michael. "He's my ghost. He's the one who followed me into this hellhole."

"What are you talking about?"

"AREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?" Alex bellowed. Realizing he was drawing the attention of other prisoners, he lowered his voice. "You get a sweet angel. I get the ghost of a kid I killed. How's that for fair, huh? And you wonder why I'm popping whatever pills I get my hands on."

Perhaps when he'd first arrived there, Michael would have written the Tweener incident off to a drug-induced hallucination. But now, with all he'd seen and heard, he doubted nothing from the supernatural realm.

Still, he sought to put the topic back on track.

"I need you totally sober, Alex," he said, keeping his voice low.

"Did you hear me? I saw him." It looked like Alex was even having trouble swallowing, his Adam's apple appearing to rise and fall painfully. "I killed that kid. I blew him away. Tonight, he didn't—he didn't look like he'd been shot. He was dressed like—like the last time I saw him, standing next to that SUV. But no cuffs, no…blood."

"What did he want?"

"What? Did you think I'd stick around to find out? I ran out of there was soon as he told me…" Alex lifted his head, his expression one of pleading. For the first time, Michael actually feared for the man's sanity. "He said…'You won't have any peace until I can rest.'"

Michael caught Alex by the arm, holding him steady against the wall. Either the experience of being haunted by the ghost of the young man whose life he'd callously taken or the drugs had made his knees buckle. Michael didn't know which was to blame, but he went on with fierce determination.

"I need to know you'll be sober," he said again. "And strong. If you can't, then I take Bellick with me and I leave you here."

"No. Hell, no, you are _not_ doing that!" Mahone was adamant.

"Alex, listen to me. Keep your voice down. I won't have you drugged up or going out of your mind—"

"I won't, okay? I won't. And you will _not_ leave me here in this place, Michael. You can't leave me here," he said, his voice hoarse. "Please. You can trust me. I won't take any more drugs. I promise. Please. Don't do that to me."

Michael wavered. He didn't know how true those words could ring, how much trust could be invested in a junkie. Even more disturbing was his own reaction, that stirring of compassion he felt within himself. And all for a man who'd done more to deserve his contempt than his compassion. Though he reminded himself inwardly that this was the man who'd gunned down his father, just like he'd gunned down Tweener, he was seeing Mahone through eyes he wasn't prepared to see him with at all.

"Let's see about getting the tabletop down there tonight," he said, reverting to a cool, business-like manner.

"Yeah." Mahone nodded and swallowed hard again. He ventured a grin, bravely. "Okay."

Turning, the man shuffled down the corridor, his head bowed. He didn't look so arrogant now; he looked like a man who'd been humbled. Michael had to look away, incensed with himself for seeing not a cold-hearted killing machine, only a broken human being.

Too much like himself.


	10. Chapter 10

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 10**

A middle-aged man wearing thick glasses met Brad Bellick at the door. When he heard the name of the man who'd come calling, he looked wary.

"I just need a few minutes of El Cura's time," Brad explained. "Please."

As if on cue, the elderly man emerged from another room through a 1960s-style curtain of beads. He smiled when he saw Bellick, a fact that relaxed Brad immediately.

"_Esta bien, Tomas,_" El Cura told his friend. "_Tranquilo. Deje que entre el joven."_

No explanation was forthcoming, but Brad guessed "Tomas" was in protective mode. Maybe he knew what had transpired there the last time Bellick had been there, during which El Cura had spiked the after-meal coffee. Whatever he'd slipped in had knocked Brad out cold.

But if hadn't killed him, though he'd first suspected he'd been poisoned. Instead he'd slept so serenely that night, more fitfully than he'd slept in all the time he'd been in that malignant place. And in the days that followed he'd found himself changing, even if he couldn't put that evolution into words.

"How you doin', El Cura?" Brad greeted him, returning his smile.

"Please—you call me Manuel." The old man waved an arm at a chair. "I am good, my friend. And you?"

"Fine. Thanks. I'm sorry, I can't stay long. I…have to ask you for a favor. Couple of favors, actually." He sat, going on apologetically, "And if I'm asking too much, just tell me, okay? No hard feelings. You're a real nice man."

He wasn't certain how much of that El Cura had understood. Maybe he had to speak slower? The middle-aged man either spoke little English or had no interest in serving as interpreter. The sweet old guy chuckled lightly and gave his shoulder an affectionate pat.

"I help you if I can," he promised. "Okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Manuel." Brad folded his hands on his lap, jumping right in. "Two favors, I need. First…would you—could you give me some rope?'

"Rope?"

_Oh, boy._ Brad thought for a moment before resorting to basically playing charades—a game he'd never been particularly good at. He pretended to climb a rope and then to tie it. "Rope. See? _Rope."_

"_Ah, si!_ _Lazo._ Rope, yes!"

"There we go! Rope!" Bellick laughed. "You give me rope?"

"Oh, no, _señor. _I no have rope."

_So much for that._ Regardless, Brad patted El Cura's arm. "Thank you anyway, my friend."

"But I know who can give you rope."

"You do?"

"Yes. I tell you where to find him; you tell him I say to give it to you. How much you need?"

Michael had told him not to trust anyone. But, following his gut instincts, Bellick leaned in closer to El Cura.

"Enough to make a raft," he said.

El Cura blinked. "A raft?"

_"Una balsa."_ So the other guy _could_ be useful after all.

"Oh." The old man's smile evaporated. "For…down there. Under Sona."

"You know what's down there?"

"I know, yes." The lines in El Cura's brow deepened. "You are not the first to go down there. Other people try."

"Uh-huh. What is down there, exactly?"

"Down there? There are evil spirits." El Cura stopped to offer Bellick a cigarette, but he declined. He lit one for himself. "They will not let you and your friends leave so easy. They will do anything to stop you. They want you to stay here. To suffer. If they have to kill you, they will kill you."

"Yeah. I've heard they already tried." Bellick sighed.

"And, also…there is something else down there."

"What?"

"Something else. Well—this is what the legend says. But legends are legends. Maybe

is no true."

Though curious, Brad went on, "Please don't tell anyone about this."

"I no say nothing," the old man was prompt to ease his fears.

"Okay. I believe you. And I have another favor to ask, but first, I have a question about…what—what was that you gave me the last time I was here?"

El Cura shrugged. He took his time answering the question, first taking a couple of drags from his cigarette.

"Something to help you see," he said at last. "You have that power to see, but you never use it. I make a spell to you to—_como se dice?_—wake up that power."

Brad didn't speak, allowing himself to digest that bit of information. Now it made sense; the pieces were fitting together. In reality, he was relieved. He'd started thinking he was losing his mind.

Now he understood that his mind wasn't going, that his imagination wasn't in overdrive. He had seen things—figures, shadowy and undefined, walking among the living there on those grounds. He'd begun to hear things; footsteps where there were no feet, hollow laughter, voices carried on the wind.

He remembered some odd things from his childhood. Unrelated, spooky things, like the time he'd dreamt that his beloved grandfather had died. Brad was ten at the time. He'd woken the next morning to learn that his grandfather had been rushed to the hospital. He'd had a massive stroke and three days later left the hospital…in a casket.

And there were other incidents. Similar. Just as strange. He wanted to ask El Cura if, strung together, they meant something, yet there wasn't enough time for that. Besides which, by admitting he'd cast that spell on him, El Cura had, more or less, answered that question anyway.

"What is the other favor?" the old man asked.

Brad touched the amulet around his neck. "This, Manuel. The _macuto._ Could you give me two more of them?"

El Cura smiled knowingly. He crushed out his cigarette before asking, "For your friends?"

"Yeah. If you can."

"It is not a problem." Nodding, the old man rose to his feet. He motioned to Brad to follow him. "Come. _You _will bless them for your friends."

There were several of them, though only two would be needed. Buried under thick cobwebs and both the carcasses of dead cockroaches and live, scurrying ones, under rat feces and years of neglect. No one had bothered to dispose of them, like everything else in that, the world's sewer.

Yet they were long. Around twelve feet long. Sections of steel fitted together. Maybe not long enough, but they would have to do. Pipes, mostly rusted over, probably there since the prison was first built. They'd been replaced by new pipes—or rather, new_er_ pipes. Those, too, had seen better days.

Michael and Alex had found their oars.

Mahone brushed away the disgusting gook, wiped his hand on his pants, and tested one. He looked from its top to the bottom, inspecting it.

"Well, it's fine," he muttered. "As long as the water's not twenty feet deep. Or more. We keep calling them oars, but they're not oars. We're pushing the damn raft with these things."

"Well, unless we can get to a Home Depot from here," Michael joked. That took effort, since he wasn't much in the mood for humor. "It's the best we're gonna get."

"Great. Then we have everything we need."

"Yep. Everything we need." Taking a grim glance around, Michael nodded. "Let's go hide our little treasures."

_Everything we need._ He wished he could be as optimistic, though it just wasn't in him right now. They'd managed to get the table's legs off, even if it had raised some curiosity from a few of the other men. Had they believed Mahone's explanation? That they were just bored and needed something to do? Or were the men there simply so numb from the despair in that place that no one cared?

Accidentally, Mahone, walking on ahead, banged the pipe he was carrying against the low ceiling. It made a loud, clanging noise.

"Easy," Michael urged behind him.

"Yeah, I know." Alex dipped the pipe down, walking faster in the direction of the freight elevator.

They had a long walk from that point. Long and arduous, since the heat that day was nearing unbearable. He had swayed before, feeling like he was about to pass out. He would've, too, had Alex not been there to catch him by the arm and hold him steady.

Compounding the difficulty was that sneaking suspicion Michael had that they were going to be caught. Either by a guard or some inmate with a taste for blood, or even Lechero himself.

He looked around again. Where was that angel? He wondered. She'd been on his mind so much lately. Who was she? And why had she been crying? Could she see him at all times, even when she wasn't making herself visible before him?

How he wished she was there now. It was as if her presence brought him courage.

"Are you doing all right?"

Michael drew in a sharp sigh. Up ahead, Alex had slowed down. He was apparently waiting for Michael's answer.

"I'm fine. Right as rain." Hadn't Alex said those same words before, but to Lechero? They'd sounded fake then, but not as false as they sounded now, coming from Michael's lips. "Oh…not really. I'm not fine."

"No? I thought something was up with you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just keep walking."

That was all he needed—to confide in a man of Alex Mahone's caliber. He was alone in Sona, but he preferred his solitude, however painfully lonely, to opening himself up to a true enemy like Mahone.

Yet his common sense was no match for the emotions causing a bitter tempest inside him.

"I spoke to my brother this week," he began.

"I know. He said he's coming for us with a boat. Or so we hope."

Michael closed his mouth, then spoke again. "He doesn't know where she is. Or he does and he—he won't tell me. And I don't know why."

That time Alex stopped walking altogether. "Or maybe you're reading more into it than there is, kid."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"No, I mean it. Maybe he really doesn't know where Sara is, but you're letting yourself think he's hiding something from you. This place, it does things to your head."

Despite himself, Michael wanted to grasp onto that explanation, to accept it as gospel truth.

"You're really the bright optimist today, aren't you?" he said, giving a short laugh.

"What do you and me got besides hope?" The dim light fell on Alex's face, making him appear somehow less dangerous, younger, more vulnerable. Almost child-like. "You've got an angel watching you. If you do, I'd have to think Sara does, too. She's an innocent in all this."

"I hope so. I guess that was true when you were with her, that an angel was watching over her."

Alex scowled. "She was never in danger with me."

"Because you didn't have that chance, I guess."

"No, I had _every_ chance to hurt that girl." Alex looked cross. "But I didn't touch her. Even afterwards, when she got me so angry, I refused to hurt her. I'm not the monster you think I am, Michael."

Turning, he continued to stalk through the corridor, taking lengthy strides of his long legs. Michael felt a twinge of regret, just a flicker, for having made that hurtful accusation. Following that was a burning anger directed at him.

Wonderful. Now he was putting himself through a guilt trip for having hurt Alexander Mahone's feelings.

"What, um…what did she do to make you angry afterwards?" he asked conversationally.

"She stopped off for doughnuts."

"What? I don't get it."

"You had to be there." Mahone's mood lifted enough that he chuckled.

It was a nice sound, Alex's laugh. Michael had noticed that before, too, though he hadn't wanted to see it. It had a genuine quality to it, making it sound so…big brotherly.

Michael shook his head in frustration. _Mahone_ and _big brotherly_. Not two words he could deal with hearing together, even if it was only in his own inner thoughts.

Alex slowed down again, venturing a smile at him. "She really loves you, that girl," he said. "I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but…"

"But tell it to me anyway. Why do you say that?"

"Because she let us catch her. She could've gotten away, jeopardized you and Lincoln, but she let us catch her. She sacrificed herself to let you have your freedom." Alex's smile grew wider "If that's not love, I don't know what is."

Michael looked away. "If anything's happened to Sara, you know, Alex, I—I wouldn't care anymore, whether I got out of here or not. I wouldn't care."

"Hey—look at me."

If that moment hadn't been so emotionally charged, Mahone would have looked rather amusing, almost surreal, standing there in that darkened corridor, holding the long pipe at his side like Moses would have held his staff. But the way he looked at Michael, with such kindness, completely unfeigned, his big hand fully cupping around the younger man's shoulder, made Michael struggle inwardly.

Because he could almost like this man right now. He could almost forget how much trouble Mahone had been to him, how much pain he'd caused him, actually torn his heart in two when he'd taken away his father. He could almost forgive him, almost release him from the bitterness he was harboring against him.

And the next words out of the man's mouth made him fight back a fresh river of tears.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Michael. I don't know any more than your brother does, where Sara is or whether or not something bad's happened to her."

Michael rubbed his neck. "The thing is, _you _didn't do anything to her. But what if they sent someone who doesn't have a problem with hurting her, Alex—"

"Hey, hey, Michael." Mahone's voice was hoarse but gentle. "You know Sara better than I do. But from what I saw, that girl would _not _want you giving up. She wouldn't want you to spend one single day in this place. She'd want you to get out of here."

"Yeah." He nodded, afraid to trust his own voice. "It's weird, though, you know? I feel like—I don't even know how to explain this."

"Try."

"Ah, well…we don't have time for this."

"Yes, we do. And I'm listening. Go on."

Michael closed his eyes. "I feel like—and I know this makes no sense—but like she's not here anymore. I don't mean Sona, I mean that she's not in this life." His hands moved to his face, swiping at the tears he couldn't hold back any longer. "And I feel like I'm just going through the motions."

Alex said nothing. At first he faltered; being physically demonstrative to someone he didn't know well obviously didn't come easy to him. He moved shakily, hesitantly, like someone afraid he'd be pushed away. But then he slid his arm behind Michael's and, in an endearingly awkward manner, lightly patted his back.

"That's all right, kid. That's all right," he said as he withdrew his hand. "Wherever she is, you know she's thinking about you."


	11. Chapter 11

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 11**

El Cura wasn't alone that Friday night. Tomas and Reynaldo were there, asleep on cots in the front room, where he always received guests. His sleep had been so light and disturbed that night, plagued by nightmares.

He reached a hand out to turn the clock on the rickety small table set near his bed. 2:34 AM, it read. Maybe a cup of chamomile would help. Cursing under his breath, Manuel chose to stay in bed. If he couldn't sleep, at least he could remain there in bed, resting.

Yet rest was not to be his as a restless morning gave way to a troublesome night.

He swiped a wrinkled hand over his eyes, one of which was blurring more and more these days, it seemed. Most likely, the culprit was glaucoma, but who was to say for sure? Ithad to be due to the diabetes. He knew, without proper medical treatment, he would go blind there in Sona. Certainly, death would find him there, sooner or later. Natural death caused by illness, since he really wasn't in danger from the other inmates.

He was reminded, in that vexing hour, of the reason he'd first been sent to Sona. Was it 1970 or 1971? He couldn't recall exactly. What he did remember was the man's name—if he could, in fact, be called a man. Jaime. A cruel and vicious beast, if ever there was one. Manuel had been younger then. Younger and stronger. He'd warned Jaime not to lay a hand on his daughter, Matilde. Manuel had been clear: _You touch my daughter again, you raise a hand to her, and I'll kill you._

His son-in-law had not listened.

Reaching out to the stand again, Manuel groped for the framed picture beside the clock. It was still dark, with hardly any light coming in through the window since the sun hadn't yet risen. But he could see the picture of himself, his wife Berta and their only child. Mathilde had been beautiful, taking after Berta, fortunately, instead of him. He and his daughter had often ridden their horses in the woods behind the family's farm, just for the pleasure of savoring the scents and sights and music of the woods.

Her husband had brought that all to an end, however. He'd beaten Matilde since their wedding night. He'd beaten her so badly that last night that, by the time Manuel arrived at their home, his beloved child had died in his arms. He'd had no doubt that the baby in her womb had also died.

She was nineteen years old. That night, Matilde was carried out of the home in one box…and Jaime in the other. And Manuel himself had left there with chains on his wrists and feet. Berta, shortly afterwards, it was too much for the poor woman, and she died of a heart attack.

In one night, Manuel's family had been utterly destroyed.

He blinked away tears. 1970 or '71. It might as well have happened yesterday. The scars were still that fresh, even after over three decades. That was why he understood those men, _los americanos. _He identified with them. Mr. Bellick and—what was his name, the tall one?—Alejandro Mahone, and the young one, Michael. _Miguel._ That was the most tragic one of all, El Cura knew.

Suddenly, he clutched at his thin blanket. The air in the room had suddenly gotten colder. There was also a stench growing in the air, becoming almost unbearable within a few seconds. He could hear someone breathing heavily.

"Tomas?" he called out. "Reynaldo? _Contestame._"

No one complied, answering him. He was met with silence. Then, to his horror, he felt the blanket being ripped away from him, completely off his bed.

Light shone at the foot of his bed. It formed a halo, like a mockery of the angelic, around the one they called T-Bag. Teodoro. His eyes were black and lifeless, staring back at Manuel. He lowered his head slightly, and El Cura could see there was something in his hand. A demonic grimace tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Tomas! Reynaldo!" Manuel tried to sit up in bed.

"_Heheheheheheh_…" T-Bag lifted the object in his hands, actually displaying it for his victim.

It was a shank, dripping with blood. He raised it higher and ran his tongue along it, slurping at every drop of blood he could get. The blood, El Cura realized, of his friends, now dead in the front room.

"Tell me where they're going, Manuel," the possessed man snarled.

"_Diablo! Dejame solo!"_ Summoning his courage, the old man swung his legs over the side of the bed—only to be flung back by an unseen force. Then his hands slammed hard against the bedposts, pinned there.

"I'll ask you again," T-Bag whispered. "Where are my friends going? Those, rude, rude boys. I know they're throwing a party…and they didn't invite yours truly. I need to teach those bad boys some manners, see? So, friend, tell me…_donde van mis amigos_?"

"I will not tell you!"

"Oh…oh, oh, oh, Manuel." A lunatic giggle bubbling out of his lips, T-Bag spoke through clenched teeth. "That's not nice. That's not nice at all." He stopped smiling, then let out a howl, loud and animalistic.

He rose off his feet. Suspended in mid-air, he hovered over the bed. His face lowered close to Manuel's, his breath foul and repulsive.

_"Dime, viejo" _Tell me, old man. "And what about this legend, hmmm? I'd like to know more about that. And…_donde esta Alejandro?" _T-Bag demanded in a voice octaves deeper than his own. It was certain that the inmate himself was not speaking anymore, but the evil entity inside him. _"Y tu amigo, Bellick? Y…Miguel?"_ Hatred, fierce and palpable, filled his contorted face. "Especially Miguel. _Give them to me_!"

El Cura stared back at him, defiant and unflinching. "Never. _Nunca, Diablo!"_

The old man waited for the cold steel edge of the knife to slit his throat, to be drowned by his own blood. Instead, mercifully, a pain, quick and ferocious, gripped his chest, minutes before his life ended just as his loving wife's had, so many years earlier.

"Is this Agent Lang?"

"Yes, sir. Is this Lincoln Burrows?"

"That's me."

"Well…Mr. Burrows, I understand you have some information on Agent Alex Mahone."

Lincoln Burrows couldn't resist smirking, holding the cell phone tighter to his ear. "Hold on a sec, Ms. Lang."

He untied the boat from the dock. A twenty-seven foot cabin cruiser, an old vessel, rusted in spots, but still pretty seaworthy. The name on it was _Milagros en la Agua_, which, he'd learned, translated into "Miracles on the Water." He surely hoped that today the boat would live up to its name. The fisherman who'd rented it looked like someone who'd needed a miracle or two of his own, like someone who'd fallen on hard times and the paltry money Linc had given him would feed his family for a while longer.

"Mr. Burrows?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I don't just have information on your man, Ms. Lang. I'll have him, in the flesh. Today."

He could hear scuffling in the background, like the lady was hustling to grab a pad and pen on her desk. "Where are you?"

"In Panama."

"And where's he?"

"In Sona. But he'll be out today, if all goes well."

"If all goes well? What does that mean?"

Linc cranked up the engine. It was early, the break of dawn. The sun was beginning its ascent into the sky. He wanted to believe it was the dawn of a new day, the first of many good ones. Yet he knew there were difficult times ahead for his brother.

Oh, God. How was he going to break the news to Michael?

"I'm going to deliver him to you," he said into the phone, ignoring her question.

"Where are you? Are you driving? I hear—"

"Listen to me, Ms. Lang!" he snapped, turning his attention to steering the boat away from the marina and out to open sea. "I'm gonna deliver Mahone to you. Alex Freakin'-Fugitive-From-the-Law Mahone."

"I know, but—"

"And I want you to throw his junkie, conniving, mean-spirited ass in jail. For a very long time, Ms. Lang. I want you to keep that bastard away from me and my family. You got that?"

"Mr. Burrows, please…please…" On the other line, Agent Lang's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please don't—don't hurt Alex. Please don't hurt him."

Linc frowned. Something in her tone struck him as odd. And why had she lowered her voice?

"Like I said, I'll deliver him to you safe and sound. Then you can feed him three-square and give him his own little cell in a federal pen, for all I care—but you make him do his time, Ms. Lang. He's got a lot to answer for."

"I know. You're right. Listen, um…could—could I talk to him? Please."

Snapping the phone shut, Linc flung it over the boat's railing. He couldn't hear it plop into the water, what with the roar of the engine and the white-capped waves stirring up in the boat's wake, slapping at the hull.

He wasn't the world's best captain, but he'd navigated a similar vessel before. Though this was no leisurely cruise, no half day fishing excursion complete with sunscreen, frothy beers, and rock music blaring from a portable CD player's speakers.

He was under the gun. His mission was to find the opening to a cave within the vicinity of the old prison in time to rescue his brother and those other two. And he had to do it quickly, without drawing the attention of the authorities. His heart was pumping fast, his adrenaline hot and pulsing through his bloodstream. The pressure was on, but he was up to the task, throwing his whole heart and soul into it.

Would Michael be pissed that he'd called the FBI? It didn't really matter. It wasn't like Panama was a hop, skip and a jump from their headquarters or anything. It would take the feds time to get down there and by then, they'd be long gone.

Hopefully.

And maybe he'd regret giving into that impulse, that desire that had raged like a fire inside him, when he heard Michael say Mahone was coming with him. So, all right: Mahone was a bastard, but he was intelligent. He was physically strong and cunning. He would be an asset to Michael in escaping Sona. Linc accepted that.

But after that, once he was again useless to them, Linc himself would hogtie him, if necessary. Tucked into the waistband of his pants was a revolver. A cheap piece, something he'd picked up. He'd use it this time on Mahone, without hesitation. But what he really wanted was justice—to send him back to the feds, let them deal with him. After everything he'd done, maybe Michael, being Michael, could forgive him. But Linc wanted him punished to the full extent of the law.

And it gave him satisfaction, however minute, to know that Alex would be carted away like the common thug he was, in shackles, hopefully sentenced to be imprisoned for the rest of his natural life for the murder of Linc and Michael's father.

With the first rays of daylight to guide him, he revved up that engine for all it was worth and sailed out, in search for their miracle out in the sea.


	12. Chapter 12

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 12**

"You doin' okay, Mahone?"

Alex's mouth twitched. His shoulders hitched up and fell of their own volition. The question, coming from Brad Bellick, had annoyed the hell out of him. To his credit, he managed to keep his temper in check.

"I'm doing just great. How …bout you? You havin' fun?"

He knew he'd been waspish before to Bellick, who said nothing and faced the elevator. Standing to Bellick's left was Michael, who leaned forward to observe Alex. Mahone raised his chin, daring him to say something, but to his chagrin, Michael remained stoic, cool and determined.

The elevator doors slammed open, the sound reverberating off the walls. It was time to move—and quicky. Together with his brothers in arms—at least that morning, they were like fellow soldiers—he hastily helped them to move the tabletop, the empty oil drums, and the other items onto the car. Bellick had also brought a flashlight, offered to him by the man recommended by El Cura, who'd also provided the rope. A big, gray, bulky old flashlight, one of those quirky and innocuous items, invaluable now to them, that had found its mysterious way into Sona. Once they were all in, Alex watched as Michael hit the button on the control panel.

The elevator delayed for some seconds…and then the doors closed and they made their descent. By then Alex was shaking and twitching so badly that it took monumental effort to try and control himself.

"This is the craziest thing!" Bellick exclaimed.

Michael chortled. "Yeah, isn't it?"

"You guys told me about it, but I gotta admit, I almost didn't believe it."

"That's okay. A freight elevator down here in Sona. Who'd believe that without seeing it?"

"Tell me about it. And it works, too!" Bellick's laugh sounded jittery. "Doesn't that strike you guys as…I don't know. Kinda like somebody might still be using it?"

"That'd make sense. But, uh, let's not go there right now. All right?"

Their small talk had begun to relax Alex. That is, until he sighed and it sounded like a raggedy, pitiful choke that turned their attention to him.

He didn't want to be asked how he was doing. That was pretty obvious anyway, wasn't it? Hell—how stupid a question could you get? How was he doing? He was miserable. Period. He couldn't stop moving. His stomach was upset and he felt about ready to throw up.

And all because he needed a fix. Alex could have gotten one, too. He could have gotten one and Michael wouldn't have known a damn thing about it, unless, like last time, he'd reacted badly to whatever crap they'd given him. But he'd chosen not to do it, not to surrender to that monkey on his back.

Besides, today they'd be free. He'd be getting out of there. Once out of Sona, he would get clean. Then he would flee Panana, go back to the States and do his time, and somehow reunite with his family.

Then again, something told him that would never happen.

The car stopped moving. The doors opened.

"This is it," Michael announced. "Let's move, guys. Fast."

Alex was the first off the car, dragging the tabletop with him. Without being too conspicuous, he slapped at his arms and sides. It felt like there were bugs crawling on his skin. Bugs—big, black, ugly things, hidden under his skin, crawling all over him. Again, that had to be the withdrawal, he reminded himself. The lack of drugs was driving him crazy.

In time, it would pass. In a few days he'd be in a nice, clean American hospital. Cleaned up and a lot better than he'd been in a long time. This terrible morning, with the symptoms worse than ever, would become nothing more than a distant memory.

Coughing, he glanced at the underground lake. It lay still and peaceful before them. But it was all a deception.

The ghosts of Sona would be a memory soon, too. All he had to do was get through the next hour or so.

_Please, God. Let that be true._

"We'll do that, Alex," Michael told him. "Brad—can you help me with this?"

"Sure," Bellick said, turning to him.

Alex slapped his hand away like it was a pesky fly and continued to tie—or try to tie—one of the drums to one end of the table.

"I can do it," he insisted petulantly.

"C'mon, Alex. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but we don't have much time. Let me and Bellick do it."

Dropping the rope, Alex waved his hands in the air and moved aside. He crouched down, looking away from them and sulking.

That was the voice of reason. Deep down, he understood that, even if he wouldn't outwardly admit that Michael was right. He glanced around, watching with hawk-like intensity. For the guards, who could suddenly appear and drag all three of them back upstairs. For the inmates, who could likewise appear and kill them for the raft.

And for the dead of Sona. His head whipped around when he heard a sound—something subtle and low, almost inaudible. It sounded like the growl of a dog. Yet there was nothing out there on the water, nothing out of the ordinary.

"What was that?" Bellick asked.

Alex ran a hand through his hair. "You heard it, too?"

"Yeah? What was that?"

"A ghost." Alex refrained from adding, _Duh!_ He was too grateful, having learned that someone else had heard the sound. It was no hallucination.

Not that the alternative was any more comforting.

"You can't leave me here," Alex told Michael then. He knew that sounded like some random thought, but to him it wasn't random. He'd been fretting about that for days, ever since Scofield had threatened to do just that.

"I'm not going to, Alex."

"Damn straight, you're not. I won't let you. I'm not—okay, I'm a little screwed-up right now, but I didn't take anything. You told me not to and I didn't, so this—this is what you get."

"I know you didn't take anything. And I respect you for that."

"You respect me? Wow. The great Michael Scofield looks at me with something other than disdain. I'm so honored!"

Bugs. Creepy-crawlies. He rubbed at his arms and legs, wishing he could scratch away at them, even if he drew his own blood. He stopped when he saw Michael and Bellick staring at him as if wondering what he was doing.

"I hope neither of you ever has to go through this," he remarked gruffly. "This is hell."

"I'm sorry you're going through it now, Alex."

"Yeah, sure, Michael. You're probably enjoying this."

"No, I'm not. I…I want to see you get better. Alex, look…this, too, shall pass. You'll be out of here soon. You'll be free."

That was a new one. Michael Scofield was being kind—to him?

Alex calmed down slightly, though he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked himself back and forth.

Michael was showing him compassion. Real or feigned, he needed another human being to take compassion on him. Compassion—not pity. It was ironic, of course, that the one showing him empathy was the same person who'd landed him in that place by setting him up.

Yet right now, none of that seemed to matter.

"Ready?" Michael asked. He stepped away from the raft with Bellick and smiled at Alex. "You got a glass of champagne? We can christen this baby."

"Hey," Brad interjected, "I'll go you one better."

Alex rose to his feet. He frowned, watching Bellick pull something from his pants' pocket. A necklace? That's what it was, all right—a beaded necklace with some small charm hanging from it, much like the one Brad himself was wearing.

"You need to wear this, Michael," he said, placing it over his head. "It's a _macuto._ It'll protect you from…whatever's down here that would try to hurt you. Or at least, it'll try to help you."

Mahone shuffled his feet. Swallowing his pride, he asked, "You have one of those for me?"

Brad smiled. He took another necklace out and placed it over Alex's head.

Instantly, Alex touched the amulet, inspecting it. Seeds and a tiny seashell. That was all that was standing between him and being drowned, this time possibly fatally, by the supernatural.

"Thanks, buddy," he murmured softly.

Brad did a double take at that last word. He gave a little nod of his head and a half grin.

Alex stared at him before looking away. Gingerly, he joined them on the makeshift raft and accepted one of the long pipes from Michael's hands.

"I don't mean to sound like your doting grandma," Michael jested, "but you can do this, right?"

"I'm okay. It's passing. A little."

Thankfully, that was the truth. The tremors were lessening in strength. That wasn't to say they wouldn't return, but at least there was some relief coming. Even the nausea was easing up a bit. Alex imagined it was probably because his fear was growing stronger than anything else happening to him at the moment. He kept a wary eye on the water. Ready for the hands with the claws to come out again. For something to grab him.

Maybe David Apolskis himself would reach for him, drag him down beneath the surface and exact justice with his own, dead hands. A part of Alex actually understood that, grasped it. He'd murdered that young man in cold blood.

Sure, he could continue to make excuses. Try to justify it. He could blame Bill Kim and the Company, lean on his reasoning that he was just doing what he needed to do to keep his family safe. Even if there was no justification for many of the things he'd been forced to do.

But the fact remained that David "Tweener" Apolskis was a kid who'd landed in prison with no blood on his hands. He could have been reformed. He could have straightened out his life, made something of himself.

Thanks to him, David never would.

"He visited me, too, Alex."

Shakily, gripping the pole with both hands, he looked at Bellick.

"Who are we talking about?" he wanted to clarify.

"You know who we're talking about." Brad, not knowing what to do with himself while the other two propelled the raft forward, sat down with his arms wrapped around his knees. "He visited me last night."

"Yeah? He told you what he told me?" Alex stopped, sniffling. "That I won't have any peace until he rests?"

He noticed Michael watching them, his lips parted in surprise.

"No. He didn't tell me that."

"Nah, I didn't think so. You didn't executive him. I did. I shot him. Over and over and over again."

"No, I didn't do that, you're right."

"Hmmm. Let's drop this, oh—"

"I put him in the same cell with an animal who raped him. Over and over and over again." Brad paused. There was remorse in his eyes as well as empathy. "You're not the only one who did wrong by that kid."

"Still doesn't make it right."

"I didn't say it did."

Alex licked his lips. He looked around at the water. Watching. Watching.

Why was it so quiet? Why hadn't anything happened? It was still. So, so still.

"Did he say I'm gonna have to die?" he demanded. "Tell me. I have to know. What did he say to you? Because maybe that's what he wants, you know? That I'm taken away in cuffs and some—somebody like me gets me someplace where he can fill me up with bullets like I did to him?"

"Tweener wasn't a bad kid. Mixed-up, but not bad. He said you won't have peace until he has rest." Brad took a deep breath. "That's not a threat. That's a fact."

That brought Alex a grain of relief. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know. But it'll be made clear to you."

It was quiet, with no one speaking. Only the sounds of the pipes moving up and down in the water and the raft cutting across the surface. Finally, Michael asked Bellick, "Did you—you get visited by anyone else?"

"No." Brad shrugged apologetically. "Were you hoping for someone?"

"Well…uh…"

"I'm sorta new at this."

"That's all right." But something in Michael's demeanor indicated that it wasn't all right, that Brad Bellick hadn't given the answer he was hoping to hear.

It had to do with his angel. Alex knew that, even if he hadn't said it in so many words. His guess? Michael didn't want to come out and say, _Brad, did Sara come to see you? Did she tell you what happened to her?_ He also felt compassion now, his designated for Michael. He didn't even want to imagine how devastated he would be, if he escaped Sona and Panama and returned, only to learn that something terrible had happened to Pam and their son. Yet Alex kept his thoughts to himself.

They continued on down for a few minutes. It was dark in the cave, save for the light from the large flashlight. It was like a single headlight on the raft, dancing on the walls, lighting the way through the tunnel ahead, into the nothingness that filled that cave.

Momentarily, suddenly, the temperature dropped. Alex shivered at the cold and sniffed sharply. He was surprised to see a puff of white air coming out of his mouth, and his surprise was matched by Michael's and Brad's, who were noticing the same thing. Was it because they were getting deeper in the cave? Funny. He didn't remember that from the first time there, when it had been just him and Michael. He became aware also of a sound—something faraway and muted, like a distant roar.

"The hell's that?" Brad asked.

Alex turned. Every hair on the back of his head stood on end. "Oh…_shit_…"

Barreling toward them from the direction they'd just come from with savage force was a huge wave. Water so dark it appeared black, coming at them, over twenty feet high. Their shouts were drowned out as the wave crashed down on them and their raft, swallowing them whole…

_Note to Readers: Hey! Thanks for reading! I love to read your comments, so feel to send 'em on in. And Darlian--thank you! I don't know how William Fichtner (who's so cool an actor) kept a straight face during the real doughnut scene. LOL! Cheers--Seabluemermaid_


	13. Chapter 13

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 13**

_FBI Headquarters, Chicago._

Agent Felicia Lang dropped her chin into her slim hand, staring at the phone she'd just replaced back onto its cradle. At the start of the day she'd developed the worst tension headache she'd had for a while. That little surprise call from Lincoln Burrows hadn't helped, either.

Wheeler appeared at her desk, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. Thoughtfully, he placed one before her. She straightened up in her chair and offered him a smile.

"Aw, you're a sweetheart," she cooed.

"Just paying you back for that day I had the head cold from hell," Wheeler said, stopping for a sip, "and you took pity on poor little ole me and brought me some homemade soup. The Tylenol not helping?"

"Nope."

"Sorry to hear that. What would help is a nice, long vacation from this madhouse."

_I'll say…to Panama, preferably,_ she thought. Taking a sip, she asked, "Have you ever heard of a place called Sona?"

"Where is that?"

"In Panama."

"Hmmm. No. Why? Oh, wait…" Wheeler stabbed an index finger into the air. "That's that prison, right? Sona?"

"Y-yes. I think so."

"Yeah, then I have. I saw something about it on one of those news shows. That's not a place I'd send my worst enemy to."

Her heart sank, though she hid her distress behind a weak smile. "That bad, huh?"

"Bad? The place is terrifying." Wheeler chuckled and leaned against the next desk over from hers. "And I saw something on the History Channel on it, too. You remember, uh, that show, what was it called—the one about—oh, _History's Mysteries_, that's it."

"I've seen that a few times."

"Well, they had a segment on that prison in Panama. They said—get this—that Sona is one of the most haunted places on earth." Peering at her over the rims of his glasses, Wheeler whistled the theme song from _Twilight Zone._

Lang giggled. She was drinking the coffee, which her good friend and colleague had fixed exactly to her liking, when he asked the inevitable question.

"What makes you ask about that place?"

The lie should have come easily to her, but it didn't, on account of a couple of things. First, she liked Agent Wheeler. That hadn't always been the case. There'd been that initial friction between them, which had been short-lived but had still driven a wedge between them. It was due to both Wheeler and Lang being the highly driven and competitive professionals that they were, both vying for the boss' attention.

But now the boss was out of the picture. And, unfortunately, disgraced.

Yet that was a whole other ball of wax. Their mutual respect for each other—two people who took their work so seriously, who ate, slept, and dreamt their careers—along with those long hours at the bureau and the stress that came with it, those two professional rivals had eventually become close friends.

The second reason it wasn't easy to lie was that she seriously questioned the wisdom of what she was doing in keeping that information to herself.

"I caught a piece of that same show on the History Channel. You know how they repeat shows? Tell you, I wish I'd caught the whole thing. It was interesting!"

"I thought so, too. You believe in ghosts?"

"Not at all."

"Oh. I do."

She widened her eyes. "Really?"

"I've seen…some weird stuff." He shrugged. Nodding in the direction of the office behind him, Wheeler changed the subject. "Heard anything yet about our fearless ex-leader?"

Uh-oh. This was dangerous territory now. Her heart beat faster with the next fib to escape her lips.

"Nothing."

The name, ALEXANDER MAHONE, was still on the door. They hadn't taken it down yet, a fact that gave her a bit of false hope. It wasn't as if he could ever return there, after everything that had happened. Yet even the name plate did things to Felicia Lang's heart, too. There were times when she still expected to see him—looking sharp in his suit, moving like a caged panther; the man was so quietly, so dangerously sexy—emerge from that office, barking orders at them.

"Call me crazy, but I kinda miss him," Wheeler confessed, grinning. "No, not kinda. I _do _miss him."

At last she could relax and be honest. "Me, too."

"And—and you know, sometimes he was the kind of guy you just—well, I didn't hate him, but I didn't always like him, either."

Reaching forward, she patted his arm. "Mahone could be difficult."

"That's putting it mildly!" There was no malice in Wheeler's laugh, but rather an undeniable sadness. Then, more seriously, he said, "You know, Felicia, there's this…that is, uh, something happened between me and the boss that I've never told anyone before…"

"Oh? What was it?"

Wheeler sighed and looked away. He shook his head in that way that suggested he was inwardly scolding himself.

"For now, I'm keeping it—" he pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips, "—zipped. But I will tell you sometime. Right now, I'd better just get my butt back to work."

She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out her black leather purse. "And I have to go home."

"Really? You're feeling that bad?"

"Ugh, yes! This baby's turning into a full-fledged migraine." For good measure, she rubbed her temple before pulling the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. "Would you do me a favor…?"

"I'll let them know, sure. Geez, I hope you feel better. But you shouldn't be here if it's that bad."

"It feels like there are a hundred little guys with hammers in their hands, pounding away in my head. Thanks for the coffee, buddy." Lang offered him a playful salute, getting one in return. "Later, gater."

"In a while, crocodile."

Though her feet, clad in her sensible, low-heeled black pumps, carried her briskly down the corridor to the elevator, she couldn't walk fast enough to avoid the guilty feeling that followed her.

More than guilt, actually. She was frightened, to tell the truth. Here were the facts: She'd just received information, most likely credible, from Lincoln Burrows, regarding the whereabouts of Alexander Mahone. Mahone, former agent for the FBI, now with a warrant out for his arrest there in the States. Her job—no, her _duty_—was to turn over that information to her superiors.

Her dilemma? Quite simply, who could she trust with that information? So much had come to light about the far-reaching tentacles of the conspiracy that had ruined so many lives already. Was anyone else in the bureau involved with them? Would Alex still be safe? For that matter, how safe was he with Lincoln Burrows? Felicia hadn't liked his tone of voice over the phone. And what was it Burrows had said that had raised her suspicions? The elevator's bell rang right as the doors were opening.

_He'll be out today if all goes well._

"Felicia! You keeping banker's hours now?"

She whipped her head up, stifling a swear word at the sight of an inquisitive, rather cocky Richard Sullins. She supposed, resentfully, that he must have thought he had every reason to be cocky, now that his own professional rival was being hunted like the very criminals they were all paid to track down and arrest.

"Oh, hi, Richard." She forced a laugh. "I'm afraid I'm going home for the day."

"Home? You're going home?"

"Yes. I'm—I have this incredible migraine. It's killing me. I can't concentrate on my work…" Although she tried to maintain her poise, she couldn't help herself. Something about falling under Sullins' piercing stare made her feel like a kid who'd gotten herself hauled in front of a stern school principal.

"Must be serious. I don't think you've ever even called in sick since you've been here." He eyed her curiously.

"Never."

"Well, anyway, you go on home and take care of yourself."

"I will. Thanks, Richard. I'll see you tomorrow." Before he could engage her in any more talk, Lang hit the button for the ground floor. Gratefully, she watched the doors as they closed.

Richard Sullins would literally have her head if he knew what she was up to. The man was tough as nails, a bulldog, one of those by-the-book guys. Much like Alex himself had been.

What Felicia Lang was about to do was not to be found in any FBI rulebook, either.

She revved up the engine of her blue Mercedes convertible, currently with its top up. It was a used Mercedes, but hell, a Mercedes was a _Mercedes_. It was her baby, a gift she'd given herself when she'd gotten her promotion and was transferred to work under Alex Mahone. At the time she'd seen him only as how he'd been known in the business. The man was a powerhouse, brilliant, both admired and envied among his colleagues. Having reported to him would look _magnifico_ on her resume. She'd intended to put up with his moodiness and his explosive temper in order to learn all that she could from him, eventually advancing up the rungs of that corporate ladder.

As fate would have it, things hadn't turned out exactly as she'd planned.

Felicia Lang waited until she reached a red traffic light to draw her cell out of her purse. Pam Mahone's number was programmed in with her other contacts.

But, no. She couldn't call her. She couldn't let Pam know that she had information on Alex, however much she wanted to put the woman's fears at ease. Felicia was jeopardizing so much already, herself, her career—and even more importantly, she didn't want to endanger Mrs. Mahone. Well, Alex and Pam were divorced, but Felicia knew that, for all intents and purposes, Pam was the mother of Alex's son, and she was still Mrs. Mahone.

She tossed the phone back into her purse. Swiped at a hot tear in her eye. She hadn't lied about that headache. Her head was throbbing like crazy.

In spite of it she had to drop by her home, pack an overnight bag and her passport, and then hurry to the airport. How might that conversation had gone, the one with Mrs. Mahone?

_Hi, Pam. This is Agent Lang. Look, I can't talk long. I just wanted to let you know I heard from Michael Scofield's brother. Alex is okay—he's alive. He's in that prison with all that supernatural activity down in Panama. Oh, and Pam? One more thing. I'm really sorry, but I am so deeply in love with that husband of yours._

Oh, yeah. That'd go over well.

Felicia Lang turned into the street leading to her apartment complex, where she'd recently purchased a lovely townhouse that she'd furnished tastefully, stocking it with her potted plants, her books and paintings she'd done herself. Alex may have been surprised, had he known that there was a real woman—and a very creative one, at that—behind that suit, one who was a voracious reader, who got lost in tending her garden. A woman who wasn't cold when it came to children, as she'd led him to believe in their brief discussion regarding C-Note and his family. She'd learned during her failed marriage that she could never have children, so it was easier to pretend she had no time for them. A loving, passionate woman who was about to sacrifice so much for him. And she was no idiot, no dewey-eyed adolescent girl. She knew he would never belong to her.

Pushing that thought aside, she wondered…how long would it take to get from Chicago to Panama?

_Just sending out a hello to Mathew's Mom--and thank you to all who've reviewed! I'm hoping to get Chapter 14 (back to the guys) in the next couple of days. -- Seabluemermaid_


	14. Chapter 14

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 14**

There was no time to think, barely enough time to react. In retrospect, Michael should have jumped off the makeshift raft before the wave hit them. Instead he remained on the raft, as if he believed he could ride it out, as the rogue wave swept it first onto its side, like in slow motion, and then capsized it, tossing the three men into the water.

_Those things are down there._ That bit of reality came to him, but he was distracted by the sudden depth of the water. He had always been a decent swimmer, yet he didn't want to be in this particular body of water. Struggling, he fought his way to the surface, sputtering. What little water he'd swallowed tasted rancid and made his stomach churn.

The force of the wave had pried loose one of the oil drums, rendering the raft useless. In that section of the subterranean tunnel, the water was surrounded by walls, meaning they would have to swim the rest of the way.

"Alex!" he shouted into the darkness. "Bellick!"

That was something else: It was pitch-dark in there, now with the flashlight lost in the water. A sliver of panic ran through him, and he fought to contain it.

How was he supposed to continue in that darkness? And where were the other two guys? Anything could have happened to them. Maybe the dead things beneath the water were holding both of them down. Maybe they were toying with him, allowing him to think he was safe. At any moment he could expect them to grab him in a death grip and force him down, drowning him slowly.

"Bellick! ALEX!" he called out in desperation.

A head pushing through the surface drew a gasp from him. In that near-total darkness, Michael was still able to make out Bellick's features.

"Scofield! Mahone!" Bellick's fear sounded as potent as his own.

"Over here!" Michael called to him. "And—where's Alex?"

"I don't know. He's not with you?"

"No. Alex. ALEX!"

"Scofield, please, help me. I'm dizzy. I hit my head on something." Bellick groaned. "Feel like I'm gonna pass out."

"Hold on!"

Michael was just reaching Bellick's side when they heard another splash in the water.

"Bellick—Michael—"

"Alex!" Finally, a reason to smile. It wasn't, he told himself, because he was so overjoyed that Alex Mahone had survived or anything. It was just easier, for survival's sake, if there were three of them.

Or so he insisted to himself.

In the darkness Mahone coughed. It sounded like he retched, too, before he glided through the water to join them.

"Well, the raft thing wasn't too bad an idea," Alex quipped. "Next time, what say we consider the Tsunami-in-a-Cave Factor?"

Bellick found that amusing, though the warm rivulet of blood dripping down the side of his face made him stop laughing.

"Oh, man," Alex muttered.

"Yeah, he's injured," Michael told him. "Not sure how badly yet. One thing's for sure: We can't stay in this water."

"I'm trying not to think about it," Mahone admitted, the color draining from his face. "It's a long way we gotta go in here, if I remember correctly. We're not gonna make it."

"Mi-chael. _Miiiiii-chaaaael_."

Thrashing around in the water, he faced the wall behind him. There was the angel, with light encircling her. A soft and warm light, though her face was still obstructed by the hood of her garment, her long dark brown hair peeking out from it as before. She hovered above them, her arms at her sides. As always, her very presence calmed him.

"There's another way," she told them in her airy ghost-voice. "Come. Hurry. Hurry, Michael!"

"Oh, my God," Bellick breathed. "Who is that?"

"My—my angel." Michael prodded him, guiding him by the arm. "Do whatever she says."

He had to know. He had to find out. Michael couldn't wait any longer.

Naturally, the time was wrong for that. He had the safety of the other two men, in addition to his own, to think of. And then there was Linc. His brother would be waiting for them with a boat at the mouth of the cave. If they were to escape before Linc could be detected, they couldn't afford to waste even a fraction of a second of precious time. He couldn't risk the prison guards being alerted of the escape and Linc being arrested along with the three of them.

_But I really have to know._

"Where is she taking us?" Alex asked behind him.

The angel herself, without turning around, answered his question: "Through another passage. Hurry."

Around a corner they turned. They swam several more yards. Michael could have continued, yet he knew Bellick, besides having a head injury and having already admitted he was dizzy and disoriented, wasn't in the best of shape. He could hear that the man's breathing was growing heavier, more labored.

"You should go on ahead without me," he said in between gasps. "You—you and Alex. Go on ahead, Michael."

Michael was dumbfounded. This was Brad Bellick, thinking of someone other than himself? He had to digest that for a moment. This was the same cruel bastard who'd made his life, and his friends', miserable while they were in Fox River. Something, some transformation, had taken place. There was no other explanation for it.

"C'mon now, Michael," Bellick went on. "It's a lot further."

"It's not. Now shut up and hold onto me."

"You guys go—"

"_Hold onto me!"_ Michael was adamant. "It's not much further. Angel—please tell him it's not."

_And please tell me who you are. Even though I already know. I need to hear you say it._

Truthfully, he couldn't bear much more. As much as he feared hearing the truth, he couldn't go on like that much longer, clinging to false hope.

The angel tossed a quick glance back at them over her shoulder, and she spoke reassuringly. "We're almost there. Just a little bit more…"

They swam through the water. The leeches had found them; Michael felt them on his body, and he watched both Mahone and Bellick reacting with disgust and pain as they slapped at the slimy creatures. Still, the leeches were preferable to those…other things. Scowling, Michael looked around at the murky water.

Where were they? And why hadn't they appeared?

"I got him," Mahone said, brushing alongside them and taking Bellick from him. "Relax, Brad. Enjoy the ride."

Michael permitted him to take over. He was in no condition to rescue anyone else. Physically, he was fine; the problem was his emotional state.

The night before he'd dreamt about Sara again. That had been the most heartbreaking of the dreams to date. It was about the escape. That in itself wasn't surprising, since Sara and escaping had been taking up so much of his thoughts lately. He'd seen himself at the mouth of the cave; Linc was there, manning a great, big, beautiful boat with snow-white sails. Above them was a bright blue sky, cloudless, one beautiful summer day. And of course, Sara had been there. She'd looked so feminine in a flowing dress the color of the sky, her long dark hair free and tossed by the breezes. Smiling, she'd positively beamed with love, and she'd had her arms outstretched to him.

In the dream he'd filled those arms of hers with a loving embrace. That was one of those memorable dreams that had seemed so real. Touching her, smelling her hair and the salt-tinged ocean air—all of it had seemed so, so real. It had actually caused him physical pain to wake up and find that none of it was real.

And he had to face the truth, that he would never touch her again, other than in his dreams. He knew that now, even if he continued to fight the truth with all his strength.

Sara was gone. This was her ghost, her spirit, moving on ahead of them. Every dream he'd cherished, everything he'd looked forward to, even his reasons for escaping Sona, his last ounce of hope, everything had died with her.

"What's she doing?" Alex whispered at his side.

The angel ran her delicate hands along the wall up ahead. An entire section of stone shifted loudly.

A door. A passageway that might have gone undetected, hidden there within the wall, like something out of an old mystery movie.

"Follow this way," the angel instructed. "But be careful. This is the most dangerous way to the ocean. And…you'll find something else there."

Michael and Alex both climbed onto the bank—what little of it there was—and helped Bellick out of the water. Cursing, they yanked at the leeches on their bodies, though distracted, their stares directed to the opening in the wall before them. It was then that Michael noticed something in the water.

A skull had bobbed up, very quickly, and then disappeared back under the water. Squinting, he could make out another form, there close to the surface. And then a second form. A third. A fourth. A fifth.

They had been there, he realized, in the water with him, Alex, and Bellick. The dead things. His heart rate accelerated as he wondered…were the ghosts under the water leaving them alone for a reason? Were they being lulled into a false sense of security?

"Hurry, Michael," the angel urged. "And be careful. You are all in great danger."

Michael swallowed hard. Hoarsely, he spoke. "Angel. Angel, before you go, I have to know who you are. Please tell me—"

She had her back to him, but he stopped speaking when she turned. Raising her hands, she slowly pushed back the hood of her garment. He stared in amazement and his breath caught at the back of his throat as tears welled in his eyes.

When he at last could speak, Michael uttered only one word out loud.

"Veronica…"


	15. Chapter 15

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 15**

Slowly, the angel covered her head again. Her eyes seemed to cloud over with fresh tears.

"You're relieved that I'm not her," she said stiffly.

Michael shook his head. "Oh, Veronica, that's—that's not it, that's—"

"It's all right, Michael. You all have to hurry. And you, especially." Veronica looked at him with a face filled with terrible sadness. "You have to get out of here. You have to go to her."

His lower jaw dropped. He tried to speak, but the angel interrupted him.

"They got to her, Michael. Sara's in a very bad way. She's holding on by a thread—and only because of you. The love she has for you, Michael—that's a powerful love. So rare. But you don't have much time and neither does she." Veronica moved away from the passageway. He noticed then that her feet weren't even touching the ground. "Go to her. Hurry."

He tried to touch her, but she glided farther away from him. Michael looked from her face to the doorway. He checked the other guys behind him. Neither Bellick nor Mahone spoke, both regarding him expectantly.

There was so much he wanted to ask Veronica. Yet there was no denying it: She was distressed for them. For him, for Alex, for Bellick—but mostly, he understood intuitively, for him and Sara.

"Michael, would you do one more thing for me?"

He had let Mahone and Bellick step through the doorway first and was about to follow them when he heard Veronica's plaintive request.

"Anything, Veronica."

"Tell him I love him. Please tell him…I'll _always_ love him."

He would have assured her, given Veronica his word he'd grant her wish. It didn't matter; the smile she gave him told him she took him at his word. Then it was as if she melted right into the darkness. Suddenly, he was startled by a hand on his forearm.

"We have to hurry, Mike," Alex told him.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. We have to hurry," he repeated in a mutter.

_Sara's in a very bad way. She's holding on by a thread and only because of you._

He forced himself to swallow a sob. Why couldn't they just leave Sara alone? Michael realized how simplistic that question sounded, but it fueled his anger and frustration all the same. Sara was an innocent who hadn't deserved any involvement.

They had already ruined his life and Linc's. Even if their plan was successful—which would take a miracle—and they both managed to secure their freedom finally, neither he nor his brother would ever be the same again. Too much blood had been shed; too many scars had been made upon too many lives.

And now he had to get to Sara before they both ran out of time.

_The love she has for you, Michael—that's a powerful love. So rare._

Just like the love he had for her. He had to get to her; he _would _get out of there and get to her. Because if he never made it out of that place, if she died before he could reach her, he could never give his heart again to anyone else the way he'd given it to Sara. Physically, he would be free; his human spirit, however, would be imprisoned forever.

"Please hold on," he whispered.

Brad glanced back at him. "What was that?"

Michael looked away. He swiped at the tears that had strayed down his cheeks.

"Nothing. Keep going."

On another note…could Veronica have been mistaken? Had they maybe gone the wrong way?

As if reading his mind, Alex remarked up ahead, "I don't like this. Feels like we're walking aimlessly. Like we're going into an abyss."

An abyss. That sounded right on target. The passageway was one long, dark tunnel, though light was coming from somewhere. It was tight, too, almost claustrophobically so. They had to walk single file through the tunnel, sometimes tracking through ankle-deep puddles of water and mud and dodging rats as big as small cats. There was something else as well, something inexplicable. Michael would never have admitted it before—before now, when he'd come to accept that, yes, the supernatural did exist, that there were such things as ghosts and angels and entities that couldn't be comprehended by the natural mind.

He could feel eyes on them. Following them every step of the way. They were being watched.

"That's strange, huh?" Brad asked.

"What? You mean the heat?" Alex wanted to know.

"Yeah. It's cool down here. Now, all of a sudden, it's getting hot. I mean _really_ hot."

"_Oooohhhhhhhhh, Pret-tyyyyyyyyyyyyyy_!"

Michael suppressed a groan. _No._ Not T-Bag, not now. How had he even found them? Even more puzzling, how had he gotten that far into Sona's underbelly, with that giant wave that had almost drowned the three of them?

He turned but didn't slow down his pace, seeing T-Bag several steps behind.

"I don't have time right now," he snapped.

"Scofield—Scofield, don't," Bellick was saying as he reached for Michael's arm. "Don't talk to him. And don't listen to him."

Anything else Bellick had said was drowned out by T-Bag's laughter. Michael would be the first to attest that the wiry little weasel had always given him the creeps. But there was something about that cackle, something both unearthly and sinister, that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

T-Bag clicked his tongue. "You boys should be ashamed of yourselves. Leavin' pooh ole me behind. I ask you: Is that any way to treat an old friend? Why, I might even call that cruel and unusual punishment."

"Don't show him fear, Michael," Bellick broke in. "Whatever you do, don't show that monster any fear."

"I'm not afraid of T-Bag."

"That's not just T-Bag, Scofield. He's—he's got something inside him. Something more dangerous than even he could ever be."

"Pretty, Pretty, Pretty! Veronica, that sow. She lied to you, boy. She's dead. Your precious Sara is deader than a doornail. They killed her." T-Bag giggled maniacally. Snarling, he jabbed a fist into his own chest. "They cut out the bitch's heart. They cut out her heart."

"That's a lie! SHUT UP!" Michael shouted.

The heat was growing more intense. Suffocating heat, like the heat from an intense fire, causing his eyes to water.

"Keep walking, keep walking!" Mahone urged.

"Oh, and as for yoooou, Mr. On-the-Wrong-Side-of-the-Law Man…" Snickering, T-Bag donned a fake innocent expression. What came out of his mouth next astonished and horrified them.

It was the voice of a small child.

"Daddyyyyy! Oh, Daddy, they're hurting me! Daddy, they said it's your fault they're doing this to me. They say you're a bad man—"

Michael looked from T-Bag to Alex. Mahone's eyes glinted with barely restrained rage.

"You…sick…bastard!" Mahone tried to push past Bellick and Michael to get to T-Bag. "That's my son! You talk like that again, I swear I'll tear your tongue out!"

"Stop, Mahone! Listen to me!" Bellick pleaded. "Don't do this, don't do this, man. This is what it wants."

"Ah, and the reformed, magical, mystical C.O.!" A puff of smoke escaped T-Bag's mouth, followed by an actual, quick burst of flames. "I saw what they did to you when you got here, Mr. Bellick. That must've hurt, huh? Rape isn't much fun. For the rap_ee_, that is. It's as much fun as a barrel of monkeys if you happen to be the rap_ist_. I'll just bet it was a little stroll down memory lane for you, too, wasn't it, big boy?"

Bellick turned away. Before he did, Michael clearly saw shame shadow his face. "C'mon, guys. Don't stop. Keep moving—"

"You were ten years old, weren't you, Brad? Ah, let me correct myself—you were only nine. You took that shortcut from school that day. Only that ended up being a very, very long way home…with that stranger who was waiting for you in the woods. What he did to you, Brad, that was so ugly. Bad, ugly things. My father did…similar things to me. Unspeakable things. No wonder we're damaged goods, you and I."

Michael felt a chill go through his entire being in spite of the growing heat that had all of them perspiring. Except for T-Bag. His surroundings didn't appear to be affecting him at all. Michael had to tear his gaze away, however difficult it was for him to do so. It was hard not to stare at T-Bag, who now barely resembled a human being, emitting the growl of a wild animal as he moved toward them.

Yet when Michael turned, he saw the impossible. Instead of being behind him, T-Bag was right in front of him now, so close that Michael had to come to an abrupt halt. T-Bag's breath, as foul as a decaying body, was stifling.

Michael's heart thundered inside him. T-Bag was silent, more terrifying than ever. His head was bowed and his breathing was coming loud and fast. No—he was panting just like a dog. A large dog, like a Rottweiler.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were entirely red. Glowing.

"She's dead!" T-Bag's voice had changed again, now older and deeper and completely evil. "Dr. Tancredi's dead. There is no hope, Michael Scofield."

"That's a lie!" Bellick cried out. "It's lying to you, Mike!"

"Leave him alone, Bagwell!" Mahone commanded, pushing past Bellick.

In a flash, T-Bag reached out and closed the fingers of his one remaining hand around Alex's throat. With that hand he lifted the man effortlessly off his feet and slammed him against the wall, so hard his teeth chattered, pinning him there. Those red eyes captured Mahone's, which were filled with fear now as he flailed helplessly, the color quickly draining from his face.

"Stop it!" Michael ordered. "Let him go! LET HIM GO!"

Alex shook his head and struggled for air, but T-Bag, the smaller of the two men, held him in that iron grip. T-Bag laughed again, shaking off both Michael and Bellick with supernatural strength.

"He's killing him!" Brad cried.

T-Bag was chattering on and on now, the words some strange foreign language. He kept his hand steady, applying even more pressure. Alex wrapped the fingers of both his hands around T-Bag's one, fighting desperately to free himself and making gurgling sounds in his throat. His eyes rolled back and in frustration he beat his fist against the wall behind him, hard enough that his knuckles began to bleed.

That was when they heard the rumble. A low but steady sound right before the earth beneath their feet started to shake. Slowly at first, then building in potency and volume, until the whole passageway came alive with violent movement, and rocks shook free from the walls. The earth cracked and opened beneath them…

_Note to Readers: Sorry for my delay in updating! I'm shooting to get Chapter 16 up in a few days. Cheers! - Seabluemermaid_


	16. Chapter 16

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 16**

The sound of footsteps, becoming louder as they drew nearer, alerted Sara Tancredi that someone was in her presence. A man or a woman's steps, she couldn't quite tell. All she knew was that the sound was as welcomed to her as a favorite old song, maybe something from her childhood, would have been. Anything, other than having to hear the constant whir and beeps and humming and other mechanical noises made by the machines around her.

Maybe the steps belonged to Michael. Maybe he had come finally to take her out of there. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Her heart danced with hope at that prospect. Someday—all right, probably not anytime soon, but someday—everything would be all right.

But that wasn't Michael. She could tell when she heard the voice connected with the footsteps. A female voice, speaking English, though heavily accented with the stranger's native Spanish.

"Hello, little girl. How are you feeling today? Oh, you poor little girl."

For possibly the thousandth time, Sara tried to move. To open her eyes. Yet not one part of her body would obey her anymore. Her body had become her prison, trapping her soul inside with no way out.

Her only chance for reprieve were those dreams. They weren't many but they were frequent. However long she'd been in that place—it had to be a hospital, that she could tell—she'd had five dreams. Each time she'd dreamt of Michael.

Michael, peeking out from under an umbrella on a stormy day. Out on a Chicago street near the lake. He'd smiled at her, that sweet smile of his. He'd called her "baby" and she'd taken shelter under his umbrella and in his arms.

Michael, in the kitchen of her apartment back home. That had been a fun dream. He'd been fixing them a breakfast of omelets and coffee. Cooking in her kitchen…in the nude. Now that was her kind of cook.

Michael, sitting on a crowded city bus with her and telling her he loved her. Other passengers, strangers around them, had overheard and cheered.

Michael, walking alongside her in a park with her hand protectively in his own.

Michael, in her bed, making love to her.

They were all just dreams, but so powerful, they had given her strength.

"Everything seems to be in order, my dear," the feminine voice said kindly. "Here, let me fix your pillow for you."

_Excuse me, nurse—you are a nurse, aren't you?_ If she could only speak those words out loud. Words that were trapped with her in that lifeless body. _Where is Michael? Please tell me. Is he alive? If he is, is he coming for me?_

Sara wanted to cry. She wanted to cry and scream and break something so badly. She could recall that moment her body had hit the ground, that terrifying freefall down fifty feet or so when she'd been thrown from the roof.

She recalled nothing else until the moment she'd realized she was in that room.

For…what? Days? Months? Had she been in there for years? Would she ever be able to walk out of it?

"All right, little girl. I have some other patients to see, but I'll be back to check on you. Okay? I'll see you later."

Footsteps now moving away from her.

_Oh, no, no, please. Please don't leave me. I don't want to be left alone. I can't stand to be alone, nurse, please. I'm so afraid. Don't leave me…_

She needed another dream. Like a drug, she needed it. If she couldn't have Michael, there in the flesh, then at least she could have him in her dreams. There, in that dreamworld, she could touch him and kiss him, be safe and nestled in his strong arms.

Even if it was only a dream.

Because maybe she would never recover. What if she were to be trapped in her body forever? What if she was brain-damaged or she would never be able to walk again?

Maybe, then, it was better if Michael never returned to her. He couldn't ever see her that way. She didn't want him to see her that way. She preferred to die before that happened.

She was crying. She only was aware of that fact because she could feel something wet in her eyes.

Yes, she could feel. They didn't think she could, the doctors and nurses. As a doctor, she had seen her share of patients in deep comas. How different, seeing the situation from this perspective. She'd felt the prick of the IV needle. She'd felt the coolness in the air one day when the AC had been too high.

And she could hear everything that went on in that room.

She could see, too. Sara opened her eyes and saw the lamp overhead, its light too bright for her. The walls were too stark-white, too sterile.

Sara blinked twice. Just to ensure that this was really happening.

Her eyes. She'd opened her eyes! A wave of excitement washed over her as she struggled to accept that truth, that she had managed to open her eyes after all that time.

She'd been in that same position before, some time ago. She'd beaten death once before. Could she dare to believe that she could beat it again?

And if she did—if she was able eventually to rise from that bed, to walk, to speak, to regain the use of her mind and body—would she learn that Michael somehow hadn't survived? That he'd been murdered?

More tears heated the skin of her face. Sara tried to lift her hand to wipe at them, but her motionless hand refused to budge from her sides.

So she could see. But she was still a prisoner.

And perhaps only death would be able to free her.

* * *

_"Whooooooooooooooaa!"_

That was Bellick's voice, shouting over the sound of a horrific rumble as the ground in the tunnel gave way. For Alex, that was both a good thing and trouble.

A good thing, because it had loosened T-Bag's hold on his neck, allowing him to take his first gasps of air after coming within inches of certain death. But it was also trouble—make that BIG trouble—because Alex, along with the other men, had found himself falling several feet.

The collapse had sent up a huge cloud of dust, some of which seemed to go straight into their throats. For seconds they were all coughing, including Bellick, who tried to spit out the excess dust in his mouth.

Alex rubbed his neck and literally waited for the dust to clear to survey their surroundings. They had landed on a pile of rubble. Several yards away he spied the source of the heat they'd experienced above—an underground fire, lighting up a corridor. Scofield had landed close to him and appeared to be getting his bearings and rubbing dust from his eyes.

"That was—what?" Michael asked, more to himself. "A fifteen-, twenty-foot drop?"

"Lucky it wasn't any deeper."

The response had come from Bagwell. Alex spat off to the side. T-Bag, partially covered in dust, attempted to rise to his feet, only to yelp like a sick dog and fell back down onto his scrawny rump.

"My ankle!" he screeched. "I think it's broken!"

"Aww, that's too bad," Mahone mumbled. "I know just the thing to make you forget a broken ankle."

"Really? What's that?"

"A concussion."

He wasn't in the best of shape right now, and he'd be the first to admit that. Alex had almost died at the hands of that possessed madman. He'd also just taken a good spill from one level of that subterranean tunnel to another.

Nevertheless, he was going to give it the old college try. On wobbly legs, with his neck still aching and his lungs burning for air, he made his way over to T-Bag, picked up a sizable rock, and proceeded to beat the living crap out of him with it.

"Stop! Scofield—help me!" T-Bag screamed. "Bellick, do something! Stop this brute!"

Mahone stopped, the rock at his side. "What was that? You're asking these gentlemen for help? Well, let's see about that, all right, chief?" He turned to Michael first. "Hey, Mike. Can I kill this piece of shit? That okay with you?"

"Sure, Alex, go 'head," Michael said pleasantly as he slapped dust from his hands and pants.

Alex turned to Bellick. "Hey, Brad. You mind if I draw blood from your little buddy here?"

"Knock yourself out."

It made Alex flash a million-dollar smile, hearing T-Bag whimper like that. He bounced a little like an excited kid on Christmas morning.

"Oh, boy! Looks like it's unanimous: I get to kill you."

Desperately, T-Bag reached up and grabbed a fistful of Alex's shirt, drawing him closer.

"Mr. Mahone—_amigo_. Now please. We're reasonable men, you and I, sir." T-Bag swallowed before going on. "I'm not—that is to say, you understand, don't you? I mean, those were not solely my actions up there before the earthquake sent us down here."

"Oh, I know. The devil made you do it, right? No problema…_amigo_." A dark scowl replaced Alex's smile. "I'm gonna beat the devil right outta you."

Holding him with his left arm, Alex drew back his fist. He could tell by the fear in T-Bag's face that the man knew what he was in for. Alex was going to put his full force into that punch, knock out some teeth while he was at it. That would bring him some satisfaction after the hell he'd been put through up there. Then he'd then finish him off by breaking his skinny neck effortlessly. That would be The End of Mr. Theodore Bagwell.

But within moments the fear was gone. In its place were two glowing red eyes.

And a demonic sneer.

Alex froze in place, his fist still drawn back, listening to the guttural laughter coming from the back of T-Bag's throat.

"Let him go, Alex. I said, let him go."

He didn't move fast enough. An invisible force tore T-Bag from his hands and tossed him roughly back onto the rubble. He grunted and cried out. More rocks rained down, half burying his slight frame up to his waist.

Alex fell a step backward and was caught by Michael and Bellick, who steadied him back onto his feet. He realized that the order for him to release Bagwll had come from neither of those men. He followed their gaze to the ghostly figure standing on top of the heap.

David Apolskis. He appeared dressed in a pristine white shirt and pants. Like Veronica, he seemed…lost. Saddened. Mahone looked around, his first instinct to run, to hide. That wouldn't be happening, though.

Because, even if he hid himself this time, he knew Tweener would appear to him again. He sighed deeply and met the young man's heartbreaking gaze.

"The collapse came from me," the ghost told him. "He would've killed you unless I stopped him."

Mahone was speechless at first, then he tripped over his words. "You—you rescued me? Why?"

"You know why. You won't have any peace, Alex…until I can rest."

Michael was on his left and Bellick on his right, but Alex forgot about them momentarily. He ventured a couple steps forward and spoke sincerely.

"David, look…" He shook his head and fought the urge to cry. He marveled at the ghost of what had once been a handsome young person before him. "Oh, God. You were so young. You were just a kid. David, I know it doesn't change anything, but I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry I took your life. I don't know what else to say."

"Rest, Alex. I need rest. I don't deserve to be thrown away and forgotten. And you need to have peace."

"David, please. Look, son, I'm begging you. I don't know what that means. What does that mean, what does that—uh—where are you going?"

Tweener had taken a small jump to the side. And then, as quickly as he appeared, he vanished right before their eyes.

Alex turned to Bellick. "You see? What does that mean?"

"I told you. You need to find that out for yourself," Brad reiterated.

"And we need to keep moving," Michael reminded them. "I don't have—we don't have much time. Let's go."

"A lot of good that'll do," Brad said. "We were supposed to go in that direction, the way your angel said. Which way are we supposed to go now?"

"Well, we can't go that way," Michael told him, indicating the corridor lit up by the underground fire. Another path, much darker and more ominous, stretched out before them. "This is the only way we can go now."

Mahone, still shaken from the encounter with Tweener, asked, "How do we know that's not going to be a dead end? How do we know that'll take us to the ocean?"

"We don't. But we have to try. We're following the same direction, just underneath it."

"Now wait a minute, gentleman!" An outraged T-Bag sat up on the heap. "You are NOT just going to ride off into the sunset together like three damn cowboys and leave me here to suffer alone. I DEMAND that you take me with you—right now! Do you here me? It would be inhumane for you to leave a disabled, helpless man here to die…"

Alex gave him one final, long stare. Tweener had instructed him to leave T-Bag alone, probably for his own good. Neither the fall nor the ghost had shaken the entity out of him. Theodore Bagwell was now more dangerous than ever. For that reason, it was probably best to leave him alone.

So resigning himself, Alex followed Michael and was followed by Brad.

"STOP, I said! If you bastards leave me, I'll die down here!" T-Bag's voice was filled with despair. "Don't do this to me! No one knows we're here! I'll die here! You can't so this! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"

Pretending not to hear him, they continued on, though it wasn't long before they came to a halt again. Alex had been staring down at his feet as they walked, thinking about what Tweener had said. Michael had stopped ahead of him, gasping loudly in shock. Together, they behind an amazing sight, almost unable to believe their eyes.

Bellick whispered, "That's it. I guess—I guess it's real. El Cura did mention it, but I didn't think anything of it. That must be the legend…"


	17. Chapter 17

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 17**

With the phone poised to his ear, Richard Sullins frowned. That was Agent Lang's voice on the other line.

Correction: That was a _recording _of her voice. Three times he'd called, and three times he'd gotten her voicemail.

_No answer yet? Oh, my! Well, I guess I'm either away from the phone or on another call. At the beep, you know what to do!_

Sullins smirked as he hung up the phone. Cutesy message, wasn't it? Kinda surprising, since Felicia Lang always seemed to be an all-work-and-no-play type of gal. He supposed there could be another facet of her he hadn't seen before.

Which made him wonder…what other little secrets was the dear Ms. Lang hiding?

He caught sight of that overgrown boy scout, Wheeler, passing by his office. Sullins shot out of his chair but, once out the door, was as laidback as could be.

"Any calls from Lang?" he inquired.

Wheeler responded in his usual helpful way. He reminded Sullins of Superman's geeky and dull alter ego, Clark Kent.

"Sir, she went home for the day. Wasn't feeling well."

"Hmmm. That's right. I just remembered something I needed tell her, but when I tried to call her, she's not picking up."

Wheeler looked confused. He consulted his watch. "That's odd. She should've been home a while ago."

"She's probably just letting her calls go to voicemail."

"Probably. She needs to get some rest."

"Oh, absolutely. She might've just gone straight to bed."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"Oh—oh, no, no, that's fine. It's not that important. I'll catch her in the morning."

"Sure thing, sir. Let me know if you need anything."

Sullins smoothed out the moment with a wink and a grin. Then he headed back into his office. He waited long enough to give Wheeler a chance to get back to his own desk.

And then he slipped out of the office and in the direction of the elevator. He'd "catch" Lang, all right. The only thing that bothered him was why he hadn't caught the sneaky bitch sooner. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he walked to his car in the parking garage, his gait leisurely.

He could have summoned the phone records, but really, he didn't have to. His instincts had told her the migraine story was total BS, but he hadn't acted on it because he hadn't been 100 sure. Besides, bringing up the records would have sent up a red flag to all the wrong people.

Namely, anybody in the FBI itself.

Sullins swerved his car down a ramp, out of the garage, and onto the street. So Mr. Burrows had called, eh? That had to be it. And he'd spoken to dear Officer Lang. Given her a fascinating bit of info. Dick Sullins stopped at a red light and hit up the directory on his cell.

Why had she done it, he wondered? Well, she must have been loyal to him. Why anybody would be loyal to that uptight, half crazed bastard was a mystery to him. Maybe Mahone had been shagging his underling agent? That could've been it, too. Guy was divorced; she was unattached. What happens in bed has been known to ruin many a good agent. Felicia Lang wasn't immune. And Mahone, besides being what some women would consider attractive, was supposedly brilliant as well, though Sullins honestly didn't see it.

All he saw was a loose canon who'd evidently kissed all the right asses in the bureau. A guy who, by all rights, should've been much further up the food chain than both Lang and Wheeler, but things being what they were, he'd been elevated far above what he deserved. Mahone _should _have been answering to Richard Sullins; now THAT would have made sense.

Sullins glanced into the rearview mirror. It still stung, that day Mahone had gotten all testy with him, basically telling him his job was more important than Sullins'. So full of himself, that one. Give a man a little power and prestige, and it goes straight to his head. He was still seething, recalling when he'd seen Mahone that first time on the news, announcing the investigation. That should have been him in that position. He was the real star in the FBI, not that anyone gave him enough credit.

But that was all right. That was fine. Mahone was being taken down now. Hell, he'd already been taken down. It served the higher-ups right, too. What an embarrassment he'd become to them. They had to be crapping all over themselves when Michael Scofield shared that little Mahone tidbit right on national television. Dick grinned and chortled to himself with satisfaction.

And the pleasure of taking Mahone down would be all his. That would be a real feather in his cap. Long overdue, too, he had to say.

"Looks like it's going down. Tonight, tomorrow—we have to proceed as if it's tonight," he said into the phone, laughing. "Yes, I know—he is amazing, that Scofield! He's a regular Houdini...Oh, well, one of Mahone's agents is on her way to Panama…Yeah, Lang…not to worry…I'll take care of her myself." Snapping closed the cell, he tossed it into the SUV's console.

Relaxing on his way to the airport, he thought about Panama. And all that great fishing! Hopefully, he'd get the chance to check it out.

He patted the revolver in its holster. Just had to get a few pesky little things out of the way first.

Bellick's voice sounded small as it broke the silence. "That's all real, ain't it?"

Michael checked his expression and Alex's. Knowing those two, he could just imagine what was going on in their heads. But what was he supposed to do? Pretend it wasn't all there, laid out before them? That it was an illusion?

"It's gotta be real," he admitted.

"_Damn_! How much you think that is, Scofield? What it's worth, I mean?"

"And where did it come from?" Alex added.

Michael sighed. It looked like something out of an old Errol Flynn movie: old wooden chests, three of them, had to be over two hundred years old, overflowing with gold coins. Scattered on the floor was jewelry. From that distance he spotted rubies, diamonds and emeralds, all there among the gold.

"How much you think it's worth?" Mahone repeated Bellick's question.

That made Michael nervous. They were just so curious, those two. Curious…and greedy.

That musty underground hiding place had also helped to tarnish the treasure. It didn't matter; after a good cleaning in the right solutions, the coins and jewels would sparkle as bright as all the stars in the Panama sky.

"A few millions," he replied reluctantly. "At least."

Bellick whistled. "A few million! And if anybody asks, it's all ours!"

Michael glanced at Mahone. He was smiling, most likely seeing dollar signs before his eyes.

So much for those two turning over a new leaf.

"We're not here to cart off a treasure," he scolded them. "We can't let anything distract us right now. Besides, whoever that belongs to—they might not be far."

"Yeah. Or maybe they died three hundred years ago." Bellick shrugged. "Pirates. They made it all the way here to Panama. Didn't they?"

"Did they?"

"Hell I know. I watch ESPN, not History Channel. I'm askin' you."

"Well, pirates were all over the oceans, so—so, yeah."

"YES! Then it's settled!" Alex said excitedly. "Unless Blackbeard comes back from the dead—which around here, hell, anything's possible, but anyway—I say we take our cut."

"Stopping to greedily line our pockets is going to slow us down. I have to get out of here. Uh—_we_ have to get out of here."

"Mike, you got a problem with having a little mad money on you?" Bellick pointed out. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm out of a job. I need a little something to tide me over till something else comes along."

"Me, too. I've joined the ranks of the unemployed, myself," Mahone said. "I—I don't want much. Just a couple hundred thousand or so."

"Yeah, that should do it for me, too," Bellick agreed. Then he appealed to Michael. "You wanna start a new life with Sara, keep her safe from those bastards, well…dead pirates aren't exactly gonna call the cops on you. Don't you wanna stop running, man?"

Weary, Michael rubbed his neck. He couldn't very well argue with that reasoning.

"The thing is, those things are part of history."

"Hey, Mike, you, me and Bellick could use some of that history," Mahone protested. "More than the some museum."

Michael hesitated. "Well…I guess. But only what we can carry."

"Great!" Bellick dove in first. "I already have an idea about what I want to do with this."

"We can't take forever doing this."

"We won't. It doesn't take long to swipe some old coins and necklaces."

"I really feel badly about this," Michael lamented.

It didn't take long for Alex to stuff his pockets with gold. And he looked like a poorly dressed, sweaty mobster with all that gold around his neck.

"Aw, you feel badly about what?" he teased. "Stealing from pirates? How do you think they got all this? From selling Girl Scout cookies? I DO watch the History Channel. These guys raped and pillaged whole villages. They deserve to get ripped off."

"Trust me, the pirates won't miss it," Bellick said. "And neither will the museums. They got enough old shit in them as it is."

Michael delayed, in no hurry to pilfer the mysterious treasure. Eventually he gave in, moving forward to begin scooping up handfuls of coins and other items, slipping bejeweled necklaces over his head.

How would he go about selling the ancient trinkets? Where would he find buyers for them? There'd be time to figure that all out later on, he decided. For now, he had to admit that Bellick was right. Some money would buy safety, both for him and Sara.

If he could reach her in time.

"You know, what I'd like wouldn't even cost that much," he gave voice to his thoughts.

Alex smiled. "What're you thinking about getting?"

"A house, for starters. It doesn't have to be very big, either. With a backyard for a dog and a garden. And for a playground set for kids." Michael returned his smile but then looked away.

And a matching set of wedding rings. And an SUV to carry the whole family. The home would be in a sleepy little town, maybe with a view of some mountains. He would be happy in a house like that, as long as he shared it with Sara. He and Sara, they'd make that place a home.

"That's all I want," he murmured.

"Sounds nice. I'd like to put in my order for the same thing," Brad said.

"I _did _have all that," Alex said. Interestingly, there was no bitterness there at all. "I'd like to think I can buy it all back. But, just the same, I'm not going to hold my breath."

"You don't know. Maybe it'll happen for you. I hope it does." Brad offered Mahone a smile and, Michael suspected, his friendship. "You could send them some money, your wife and your boy. She'll need that to raise him. I'm gonna do that, send my mother some money. Ma depended on the crap pay I made at Fox River. Maybe it was crap, but it paid the bills. I'm sending her money so she won't have to wonder how she'll make ends meet."

Michael scratched his head. He didn't want to care about this man; he told himself that Brad Bellick was no good. He was no good when he first met him and he was no good now. Or was it possible for someone even like him to change? Michael couldn't help himself, smiling back at him.

"I'm—I'm sure your mother will appreciate that," he stammered. "I hope she'll be okay."

"I hope so, too. She's got a heart condition. She's already had a heart attack a couple years ago. She can't be making herself sick over money. As for me, I'm gonna try to start over. I wanna do something good, just don't know what right now. I'm done with being a CO, though, that's over. No offense, but I never want to see the inside of a damn prison ever again."

"No offense? None taken." Alex chuckled, offering a pat on Brad's shoulder and, just maybe, his friendship.

Suddenly Brad stopped, his hands holding up rings he'd been inspecting. He squinted at something over at the other end of the room and his face went pale.

Michael narrowed his eyes at him. "What is it?"

"We need to get out of here."

"What? Why?"

"We need to get out of here _now_."

The items slipped from his hands, falling to the dust on the ground. From behind some rocks Michael could see movement and shadows, and they could hear something that sounded like the buzzing of insects.


	18. Chapter 18

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 18**

Sleep had come to her. It had taken so long, eluding her. Yet once her eyes closed Sara was able to drift into a long, deep and yet troubled slumber.

The dream she'd had during that time had been so vivid. She'd seen herself walking through a graveyard. And she was dressed, crazily enough, in a beautiful, sequined wedding gown adorned only by a delicate string of pearls around her neck. So real was the dream that she could see her long, silky veil flowing around her. Her hair was up in a wispy bun—the way she'd always wanted to wear it, if she ever became a bride. The most romance touch? An origami swan tucked into her bouquet of tiny pink roses.

And she was barefoot. Fretting over having no idea where her shoes were on her wedding day. Prepared to meet her groom at the altar, but not fully prepared. One very important item of dress was missing, and as so often is the case in a dream, it was something utterly absurd.

_Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaraaaaaaaaaaaa…_

That was Michael's voice! She looked around, confused. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere in the graveyard. But where? She hurried past headstones, looking for him.

_Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…_

"Michael! Where are you?" she called back desperately.

_Sara, hurry. Hurry, Sara._

She whirled around. Behind her, several yards away, was an old mausoleum. The name of the family on a plate over the door seemed to have worn away. Up the side of it climbed ivy which was dying. Michael was in there? In that terrible place? She could have sworn his voice had come from the structure.

Sara stumbled toward it. This was so unfair, she thought. Though afraid, she was also angry and frustration. This was their wedding day, and yet she and Michael were still being pursued, still in deathly danger. Well, enough already. She walked with determination, believing she would put a stop to this once and for all. She and Michael, they were going to run away somewhere. They wouldn't waste a minute. Directly following the wedding, they were going to flee—hop a ship or plane somewhere and never come back. She didn't care where they went, but they would be together.

They would be free.

_Saaaaaaraaaaa!_

As she reached her hand out to push the door, it noisily creaked open by itself. She withdrew her hand out of fear. Hesitantly she stood there. A gust of wind rose around her, tossing the skirt of her gown and her veil.

_Sara, don't go in there._

It was as if her feet were glued to the marble floor. She tried to move but she was paralyzed; she tried to speak but she was mute.

Through the tomb's arched doorway she could see a mantle, along with a dozen or more candles were lit. In the room was someone, a small male with a hunchback, seated on a coffin. With his back to her, he remained still. Patches of hair were missing from his misshapen head. Along his shoulder a large cockroach crawled lazily, its long antennae quivering.

Then, without warning, the thing turned its head. Grotesque. That was the word that came to her. There was a triangular gap where the nose belonged, through which a disgusting yellowish-green ooze flowed. The mouth was hideously shaped, stretching from one ear to the other. It opened to reveal rotted teeth and three tongues, all of which were gnarled around each other and dripping blood.

This is what _they _had sent after her. The ones who wanted to murder her and Michael. No one had to tell her; she sensed it. In her horror, Sara turned and ran off the mausoleum's single step.

And she collided instantly with Michael. Her groom, looking handsome in his black tuxedo, his blue eyes filled with love.

"Oh, Michael, Michael—we have to get out of here!" she pleaded.

Smiling, calm, he wrapped his arms comfortingly around her.

"It's all right, Sara," he said.

"No—no, it's not! Michael, don't go in there. There's—there's this thing in there."

"It's all right, baby. But I need you to get out of the bed."

The door to the mausoleum shook with the strength of an earthquake. It was knocked off its hinges, the dust of the dead rising from it and swirling around in a circle. Whatever that was inside, it wanted out. NOW.

And it was coming after them.

"Michael, we have to go!" she screamed, now close to tears.

He was calm. Determined.

"Get out of bed, Sara."

"I can't!"

"Yes, you can. You have to. Get out of bed. Now. Hurry, my love."

It was then that she awakened. It was like her soul had escaped the dream by the sheer force of her will.

Seconds passed before she realized she'd reached up both hands to rub her face. Slowly, trembling inside and out, she held up her hands and stared at them in disbelief.

_My hands. I moved them!_

Was this a dream, too? A cruel dream that was letting her believe she wasn't in the coma any longer, nor was she paralyzed? Would she wake up to find that nothing moved, not one little finger? Or would she remain in that coma?

Tilting her head to the side, Sara blinked her eyes. She could see the clock on the nightstand. She could even hear it ticking. Clearly, she heard it!

_Tick, tock, tick, tock…_

_Oh, my God. Was there ever a more beautiful sound?_

Licking her lips, she glanced to her left. It was nighttime. She could see the opaque sky, completely devoid of stars, through the room's single window. Gathering her courage, she turned to look down at the foot of her bed.

And then she did it: She raised and lowered her right foot. A loud gasp of delight and a sob threatened to be heard, but she muffled both behind her shaking hands. Up and down she moved her foot, forming a little circle underneath the bedsheets.

No more coma.

No more paralysis.

Life and movement, life and movement. Oh, each one was as sweet as each other!

_I need you to get out of the bed._

That was impossible. Or…was it? She remembered the fall of that building. No, not a fall—that woman with the long dark hair and the cold, dark eyes—what was her name? Susan, she'd said—had pushed her off the roof. Pushed her with the express purpose of killing her. Sara suspected the pain throughout every muscle and bone inside her was the result of the trauma of her body hitting the ground from that height.

Had she suffered internal injuries? Possible. One thing was certain: There was no part of her body in a cast. Her head ached dully and it felt too heavy for the rest of her body. With an electric thrill, she noticed hunger gnawing at her. Hunger! She was aware of her need for something to drink, too. Hunger and thirst—reminders that she was no longer in a coma, that she couldn't be sustained merely by an IV bottle any longer. The leaving, the breathing, the alive-and-well bunch needed a lot more than that. Amusingly, what she could have devoured right at that moment was an entire dish of lasagna, and for dessert, some blueberry pie!

Footsteps approached again. Was that her kind nurse, the woman who'd tended to her? Sara resumed her motionless position to the best of her ability and recollection.

And then she closed her eyes.

The steps belonged to a man. A heavy man, rather large. She could see him when she ventured to part her eyelids ever so slightly.

Nothing strange or out of the ordinary about him. White lab coat, so that had to mean he was either a doctor or a male nurse. He behaved like a medical professional, appearing to check her pulse and heartbeat. It sounded like he was checking the machines. Should she tell him the truth? Open her eyes, tell him the good news that she was no longer in Never-Never Land?

"Hmmm. Interesting," she heard him remark.

Again she peeked at him, refusing to reveal the truth about herself yet. He was an older gentleman, completely bald. She felt him patting her shoulder and chuckling. The strange thing was that it should have been a soothing gesture to her. But coming from him, it was nothing short of sinister.

Then he drew closer, whispering into her ear.

"My, my. You're a feisty little one, aren't you, Dr. Tancredi? A tough cookie, I'll give you that. You should've died in that fall, but you didn't. That's quite all right, sweetheart. If you live—and I think you just might—you'll make some very useful bait for us to catch our dear Mr. Scofield."

Behind the words was a smug chuckle. And extraordinary malice. Then the bald, mysterious man padded back out of the room. He had to have heard the wild surge in her heartbeat, with or without the stethoscope he'd used on her.

Opening her eyes again, Sara waited for some minutes to pass. It might as well have been an entire decade, for as anxious and frightened as she was. She kicked off the sheer blanket with some effort, moving despite the pain and weakness throughout her body. Her heart seemed to be keeping perfect rhythm with the clock now.

She had to find some clothes. All she wore was one of those flimsy hospital gowns. Oh, and shoes. She knew what she was about to do—escape from that place—was dangerous beyond words.

But to stay there would mean she would be trapped within the nightmare with absolutely no way out.

_Note to Readers: Thanks for stopping by to read my story! I hope to update more in the next couple of weeks, since the real PB will be on hiatus & we'll miss the guys! - Cheers, Seabluemermaid_


	19. Chapter 19

**HAUNTED SONA**

**CHAPTER 19**

This wasn't supposed to have taken this long.

Linc cut the boat's engine, allowing the cruiser to float leisurely. That was for the best, anyway. The motor's roar boomed over the sound of the gentle waves out there, above the lonely wail of a distance ship's horn. He wasn't that far from land and in fact could see the revolving light coming from the prison's guard tower.

Sona, at that hour, looked even worse. Darkened, ominous, unforgiving. It was just an old building, Linc told himself, nothing more. But it was an old building with a persona attached, one that was blackhearted and evil.

He checked his watch. Where was Michael?

His brother had been right about the cave. That is…if it was the _right_ cave. It had to be, he thought. From that point on the water, Linc estimated the distance between the prison and the opening, that sizable gap, like a bleeding sore cut right into the cliffs.

It had to be the cave his brother had spoken of, since, as far as the eye could see, there were no other caves around.

_Come on, Michael! Where are you, man?_

With the heat being so stifling, he'd taken the time to purchase a cheap cooler. He'd tossed in a bag of ice and now pulled out a chilled bottle of iced tea, downing half of it thirstily. Sara came to mind as he stared out glumly at the point where land met sea.

She wasn't going to make it. He just had that feeling, though he still held on to a speck of hope. If she died, how could he break the news to Michael? He'd be devastated.

And then, too…there was LJ.

Linc winced at what was actually a physical pain inside him when he thought about the danger his son was in. He hated doing that to Michael, hated himself for lying to his face. And it wasn't that his brother didn't love LJ and wouldn't move earth and sky to save him, because in truth, Michael loved the kid like his own son.

Yet Linc knew that, once Michael knew what was going on with Sara, and God forbid, if she never came out of that coma, he would shut down. Just completely, irrevocably shut down. There'd be no reaching him then.

What was that movement in the opening? Linc had the bottle poised to his mouth and then lowered it.

Michael? Mahone, maybe? Was it them at last? Relieved, he smiled and started for the motor but then stopped.

Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. Possible. It was so dark out there, pitch-black. Could have been the light from the boat dancing on the canopy of total darkness in the mouth of the cave.

But _no._ It wasn't the light; his eyes were fine. He blinked, clearing his vision as best he could.

What…the hell…was THAT?

Linc rested one hand on the boat and leaned forward slightly. He reached for the binoculars he'd found on the boat.

That had to be his imagination—or so he prayed. Human beings didn't grow to that height. The figure hovering near the entrance to the cave had to be eleven, maybe twelve feet tall. It was dressed in a black robe with a hood, covered from head to toe. Linc could make out the face. A bony face, the skin a mottled color, like that of a rotting corpse. Hands, that same color of death, reached out through the sleeves. He tried to catch his breath.

What that was, it was staring back at him. Sneering at him. A chill ran through him. For the first time that night, he was afraid. Deathly, paralyzingly afraid. Michael had said the place was haunted. The people he'd spoken to had also sworn to it.

It had seen Linc. And it was taunting him.

Daring him to come closer.

* * *

Michael swallowed hard. He managed to jest, if rather shakily, "There's something you've yet to see on the Discovery Channel."

Bellick answered seriously, either not catching the joke or too afraid for humor.

"They're not—they're not natural."

"I gathered that. You don't have to be a psychic ex-prison guard to know that. Besides, I don't think they make roach motels that big."

"They're spirits. That's the form they're taking with us."

"Lucky us," Mahone threw in, also in a choked whisper.

The men saw the antennae first. Antennae a good two feet or so long, bobbing out from behind the treasure chests. And then the rest of the insects appeared, crawling out from behind. Insects, complete with wings. A sickening brown color, with multiple legs, buzzing loudly.

Half a dozen of them. And every single one appeared to have a deadly, larger-than-life stinger. The insects approached the men, who were slowly backing away, slowly. The insects approached like predatory animals.

"We're not getting out of this room alive," Bellick noted with a mild whimper.

"We're gonna run," Michael told him.

"Outrun 'em? How? What if they run faster?" Mahone asked.

"We're gonna try, that's for damn sure."

One step at a time they moved back in the direction of the corridor. One step at a time the ungodly creatures advanced. Buzzing. Their antennae wiggling up and down. Fluttering their thin membrane wings.

"Run," Michael commanded.

Bellick, the closest to the door, sprang forward. Mahone trailed him and right behind was Michael. Behind them the insects buzzed louder, furiously, as if angered by their prey daring to attempt escape from them. Up ahead, Michael saw Bellick stumble, immediately regaining his footing and forging forward.

Hearing a screech behind him he looked back. One of the monstrous insects shot out its wings to their full, horrifying expanse. Its legs lifted off the ground and it pounced forward with unexpected agility and speed.

"NO!" Michael's shout echoed through the passageway.

Where was the angel now? Where was Veronica? He needed her. Now more than ever, and she was nowhere to be seen.

He ran but he saw the insect tower over him. Something sticky adhered itself to his shoulders, shirt and waist. Michael fought wildly but in seconds he felt himself being lifted, his feet losing touch with the ground. His eyes widened.

"NOOOOOO! Help!" he screamed. "_Bel-lick_! _Al-eeeex_!"

The insect's buzzing, already a demonic sound, grew louder behind him. As he was carried higher—five, ten, fifteen feet high—he flew over Alex and Bellick, who almost collided with each other, both distracted and slowed down by seeing him.

"Oh, shit, Scofield!" Bellick exclaimed. "Shit, shit, _shit_!"

"What do we do? What do we do?" Mahone cried out.

But there were five more of the insects. Still advancing, scurrying fast after the two men who remained. Michael continued to fight in spite of his better judgment, knowing that it now a far drop—more than thirty feet—to the ground.

"This is it," he uttered out loud.

Mahone and Bellick were out of sight now. Naturally, they were in danger themselves, struggling to avoid the other insects. But this was Alex Mahone and Brad Bellick. Neither of them would turn back for him, even if they could. He wasn't getting out of there now. Like T-Bag, he would be left there, in the underbelly of Sona. Wherever "there" was.

Then he had his answer to that question as the insect approached. "There" was what looked like an arched doorway carved into the wall. And in the center…what was that? A crate? Just a solitary crate. No—that was a coffin. He choked back a breath, realizing as the insect flew closer that it was a coffin. What was that behind it? A mantle?

No, that was an altar. Dozens of candles were lit and glowing around the edges of it. There as a figure on it, a slight, naked figure that he couldn't quite make out. Blinking, Michael focused on another figure, this one seated on the coffin. A freakish figure, its head an odd shape, hair missing in patches.

Without warning, it turned its head. From the fear alone Michael let out a cry when he saw the mouth stretched from one ear to the other in a grotesque grin that revealed rotted teeth and three tongues knotted together. Blood dripped from those tongues. There was a triangular opening where the nose belonged. The figure rose from the coffin at the same time the figure on the altar moved, and now Michael was close enough to see it clearly. His heart skipped a painful beat.

That was Sara. Naked, her hair falling around her face and shoulders in tangles. Propping herself up with her hands, her eyes filled with tears and catching the reflection cast by the lit candles.

"Sara," he breathed her name.

And the flying insect-spirit released him, allowing him to fall roughly onto the altar. He saw both Sara reaching for him with one hand. The small, deformed beast did the same with his skeletal hands as he let out a blood-curdling screech before darkness engulfed Michael.

_Note to Readers: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!_


End file.
